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Grand opening coming up in January 2012.  Hope to see you there!

Now, happy Solstice to all, and to all a good night.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

One such question I received recently involved yeast:

I made some fresh bread recently, and I was very pleased with the result. However, I was a little put out by the buck fifty I had to drop on a tiny cube of Flieschman’s active yeast. I know that you can keep yeast cultures living for an extended period of time. do you have any techniques to share with me on that? Is it possible to keep a culture in a mason jar in the back of my fridge and take from it when I want to bake a loaf of bread? Seems like it would be a lot simpler, and would require less planning than a trip to the store each time I want to bake a loaf.

Yeast is such a multifaceted topic, a primer seemed to be in order.

First of all, there are several types of yeast available.  Or maybe it’s more accurate to say there are several forms in which bakers today can purchase Saccharomyces cerevisiae for baking.  (We aren’t going to get into brewing yeasts here, as that is an entirely different question, one which my friend here may be more qualified to answer as he is himself – or was, when we first met – a noted homebrewer.)

The form of commercial yeast I use most often, and therefore am most familiar with, is Active Dry.

In Paris, I buy this little canister – sold at many North African butchers – and store it in the freezer, where it keeps at least a year.  In the States, I used to buy it at Costco.  I find the canister or larger bag to be much more convenient to use than those tiny, weirdly-proportioned packets.  I mean, suppose your recipe calls for some amount other than two-and-a-quarter teaspoons of yeast?

The yeast itself looks like a bunch of tiny pellets, and in my most recent experience, testing recipe after recipe for hamburger buns, I’ve found that it helps to dissolve this yeast in a little warm water before adding it to the rest of the ingredients.

Fresh yeast, or cake yeast, is sold in cubes or blocks.  It has a funny, squeaky-crumbly texture and only lives for a few weeks in the fridge.  I’m pretty sure freezing would kill it, as the yeast cells in fresh yeast are live, while in dry yeast they are dormant.  I have much less experience with the fresh stuff, having only worked with it in croissant and danish dough for a year.  For those doughs, I dissolved the yeast in some sugar – it was endlessly fascinating the way it just liquefied – and I recall using quite a lot of it, as compared to a similar recipe that called for dry yeast.

There’s also instant yeast, which is very similar to dry yeast.  It is supposed to have more active cells than active dry (just to be confusing) and is sometimes labeled “Rapid Rise.”  You could use a little less Instant yeast than active dry, but honestly, I rarely make the conversion, because I have a secret: it doesn’t really matter how much yeast you put in your dough.

WHAT?!?  I can hear the collective gasps from here.  But it’s true.  Put a lot of yeast, and your bread will rise quickly.  Put less, and it will still rise, just more slowly.  There are limits, of course.  Too much yeast, and too fast a rise, and the resulting bread will lack flavor complexity at best, or be unpalatably yeasty at worst.  Too little, and, well, you’ll be waiting a long time.

But all this is kind of preliminary to the question, which was more about growing and keeping yeast cultures.  The short answer is no, not like one keeps liquid yeast cultures for beer brewing.  The long answer is yes, you can keep a yeast culture, in the form of a starter, but it will not work the same way in recipes as commercial yeast will.  In short, doughs made with natural starter will take longer to rise, but they will have more complex flavor and a springier texture.  You can also bake using a mixture of starter and commercial yeast, which offers a nice balance of efficiency, flavor, and texture.*

Getting a natural starter going is not at all difficult.  All you need to do is mix some flour and water in a container (significantly larger than the amount of flour-water mixture in it) to a thick pancake batter-like consistency.  Cover it loosely, and let it sit somewhere warmish, like the top of the fridge, for a few days.  If you’ve caught some natural yeasts, you’ll see that the mixture has gotten bubbly.  It will grow for a while, then collapse.  You’ll be able to see this by residue left on the sides of the container.  Once it’s collapsed, it needs to be fed.  Feed it equal weights flour and water once a day for a few days, discarding about half of what’s there before each feeding.  After a while it will start to develop its own unique flavors based on the specific variety of natural yeasts found in your kitchen.

If the trapping-natural-yeasts isn’t working for you, you can also try to get it going by putting a few grapes or other fruits in the mix to harness the yeasts growing there.  Or you could even start with some old dough – the next time you make bread, just reserve a little bit of the dough and feed it as though it were starter.  It will start out as a commercial yeast starter, but it will gain character over time.

Starters do require some maintenance.  Depending on how often you use it, you’ll either want to keep it at room temperature or in the fridge.  If you use it often – once a week or more – keeping it out is the way to go.  Your starter will be much happier and more active at room temperature, but it does need to be fed at least every two days.  You can feed it up to twice a day, about eight hours apart,  if you’re trying to bulk it up, but the ideal is once a day.  The cycle goes something like this:

Here’s my starter in the morning.  Feeding time.  I pour off about half of it, then add equal parts by weight flour and water.

I cover it loosely with plastic wrap, and leave it alone to digest.  A few hours later, it looks like this:

All bubbly and happy.  You can see it’s grown up to the top of the bowl.

Later that evening, it’s settled down a bit.  I could feed it again now, but I’ll wait until the morning.

The bowl in which your starter resides will get gunky.  I change mine every few weeks or so, moving the starter to a clean bowl and giving the old one a good soak.  Now is a good time to note that if your starter starts growing any fuzzy stuff, or turns funny colors like pink or orange, it’s gone bad.  Throw it out and start over.  Your nose will also learn how it smells when the starter is good – fruity, bready, slightly sour – and when it’s gone off, your nose will tell you that, too.

You can also keep your starter in the fridge.  It won’t be as active, so it only needs feeding every week or so.  (I’ve gotten away with an appalling amount of starter abuse, letting it go two or three weeks in the deeper recesses of my fridge, but it doesn’t seem too much the worse for wear.  Right now it smells like apples, which is delightful.)  You’ll need to take it out and feed it and bring it up to room temperature before using it.  To return to the original question, re: planning, I expect that this method requires at least as much planning ahead as a trip to the store, if not more.

I hope this has answered your query, and if any of you out there in Internet-land have follow-up questions, I’ll do my best to answer them in the comments.  So have at it!

In case you’re wondering if I have my own food guru, to whom I turn when I need recipes or advice, the answer is yes.  But I’m not sharing her email.

*For some marvelously informative posts on the subject of working with a natural starter, check out this one and this one from Chocolate & Zucchini, where Clotilde has also developed a number of lovely recipes with her starter.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

The beers (Kölsch, and Kölsch alone) are brought around on deep trays with slots to hold the narrow glasses. The waiter keeps a tally of how many you’ve ordered on your coaster.

I had sauerbraten, a dish of braised beef in a sweet-and-sour sauce traditionally thickened with ground gingersnaps.  It came with potato dumplings and applesauce.  Classic.

Nick ordered the bratwurst, sold in lengths of three-quarters of a meter.  It was served with a tiny tureen of spicy mustard.

Just look at the lovely lace the Kölsch leaves behind on the glass.

After lunch we went out to do a little sightseeing.

The cathedral is stunning.  It just goes up forever.  And it is there to greet you upon exiting the train station.

Nearby, at the bierhaus Früh am Dom, a party atmosphere reigns, with waiters scurrying around making sure that everyone has a full glass.  We found the crush of people overwhelming, and the beer underwhelming, so Nick and I moved on, to the Sion brauerei.  Which was a train wreck.  All the beer was pouring foamy, glasses and dishes seemed to be breaking left and right.  Everyone was stressed.  After a short walk along the Rhine river, and a number of failed attempts to find a place we could sit and have a snack before the concert (apparently the Germans hold mealtimes much less sacred than the French – places were packed with people drinking and eating by 5 pm), we ended up at Gilden im Zims, a cavernous bier haus where we noshed on weisswurst and soft pretzels served with butter and sweet mustard.

We also had a sour cherry strudel, the photos of which were completely unremarkable.

The next day dawned cold and sunny.  Following a wonderful brunch buffet (not words you’ll hear from me very often), Nick and I once again set out to taste Kölsch.  The small size – 20 cl, or less than 7 oz. – of the glasses makes it easy to taste a wide variety without losing your senses.  We visited Peter’s Brauhaus, where we sipped beer under bowers of hops, and the smells of dumplings and sausages wafting from the kitchen managed to reawaken our appetites.  But rather than get stuck all afternoon in one spot, no matter how gemütlich (cozy, welcoming) that place may be.  So we left, and I sure am glad we did, because at the very next stop we found our very favorite beer of the whole trip.

There, on the sunny terrace of the Pfaffen Brauerei, Nick and I sipped their kölsch from beautiful glasses.

And we immediately grinned at each other.  Gorgeous hop bitterness and crisp, refreshing body made this beer the clear winner of our tasting.

As we enjoyed our beers, I took a gander at the food menu and noticed that they had a special menu for game season.  Sold.  Only it wasn’t quite time to eat yet – we wanted to fortify ourselves before our train ride home – so we had to find a distraction.

Fortunately, Köln is full of distractions for beer-lovers such as ourselves.  We took another short walk down to the river, skipping the Lowenbrau brauhaus in favor of the Bierhaus en d’r Salzgass, tucked away on a cobbled side street.  They happen to pour Päffgen beer, which we’d already tasted at the brewery the day before.  But we liked it, and the imposing-yet-cozy, dark carved wood-and-wrought iron interior intrigued us enough to settle in.

Of course, I thought we should have an apéro, so I convinced Nick that we couldn’t leave Germany without splitting a plate of liverwurst.

After which, we went straight back to Pfaffen for dinner.

Nick chose the wildschweinbraten, sauerbraten made with wild boar in place of the usual beef.

I had the goulasch of venison.  Both dishes were served with potato dumplings, braised red cabbage, cranberry sauce (I have suspicions that these were actually lingonberries),  and a baked apple, which made a lovely dessert after the hearty meal.

An aside – until I looked back through these photos, I hadn’t realized how ubiquitous the lion’s head soup bowls were, but I seem to have captured them in no less than three different places.  Funny.

Our bellies full of warming German food, Nick and I hopped on the train back to Paris, where we dozed and read and after three hours, we were home.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

I was delighted to receive the news, several weeks ago, that I had won a copy of Super Natural Every Day from The Kitchen Illiterate.  Since receiving the book, I’ve been cooking from it quite a bit, as well as finding myself inspired by it while doing my food shopping.  (“Yellow split peas?  I think there are a couple of recipes for those in that new book!” “I should probably be keeping quinoa and bulghur on hand…” “How could we possibly be out of miso?  To the Japanese store, posthaste!” Sometimes I talk to myself in an old-timey fashion.)

I’ve made mention of the book a few times on Seasonal Market Menus, my other blog devoted to CSA eating and menu planning, because the recipes are great for using whatever vegetables you happen to have around, given a few pantry staples.  I certainly haven’t followed any of the recipes to the letter, but that doesn’t stop them from being a fantastic source of inspiration.  Like this soda bread:

I’d never really considered soda bread as a legitimate thing before, but Heidi’s photos convinced me to give it a try.  I substituted leftover pickle brine for half of the buttermilk in the recipe, to no ill effect.  The dough was delightfully springy, and any rye bread that doesn’t insist on caraway is a good thing in my book.  It baked up nice and crusty, with a slightly biscuity or scone-like texture in the crumb.  The bread resisted staling longer than a yeast bread would, which is good because the loaf was huge.  We ate it for almost a week, and then I took the remaining half and turned it into some of the crunchiest croutons I’ve ever made.

The recipe for Yellow Split Peas and Greens was easily adapted to use up a head of escarole I got from the farm share, and Nick gamely put it together one night when I was otherwise occupied (read: blogging).  We both loved the cilantro pesto, of which there was a bit left over which could be used to dress any number of grains, beans, or pastas.

If there’s one recipe I already can’t wait to make again, it’s the Miso-Curry Squash.  She used delicata, I used potimarron, both of which have thin, edible skins that make them terribly easy to cook with.  But the star of the show was the miso-curry paste, made by mixing miso, Thai curry paste (she called for red, I used yellow), and oil.  Tossed with sliced squash and cubes of tofu, then placed in the oven to roast, this stuff makes the house smell absolutely heavenly.  I also left out the potatoes in favor of serving the vegetables over soba noodles, and replaced the so-rare-it’s-downright-mythical-here-in-France kale with sautéed Napa cabbage.

A sprinkle of cilantro and toasted pepitas – these two staples of Mexican cooking being a couple of Heidi’s fetish ingredients, apparently – and we enjoyed a delicious, hearty vegetarian dinner.

But I’m not done mining this book for ideas.  I’m looking forward to making the wild rice casserole, which, come to think of it, would probably make a great Thanksgiving side, and when I read the recipe for baked oatmeal, I declared that I wanted to host a brunch just so I would have an excuse to make it.  I adore oats, so the oatcakes are on the shortlist as well, and though I love French mustard, I’m curious to try my hand at the homemade stuff.

So thank you, Laura, for introducing me to Heidi‘s cooking, and thereby helping Nick and I to eat that much more healthily.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Treacle toffee ice cream, spiced hot toddy poached pear, speculoos.

The ice cream comes from Beyond Nose to Tail, and I’ve been wanting to make it since getting the book two and a half years ago.  The pear, poached in what basically amounted to a hot toddy (in part because I ran out of sugar – here’s to happy accidents) with whole cinnamon, allspice, clove, black pepper, and star anise, makes a marvelous accompaniment.  And who doesn’t love a crisp speculoos cookie?

On this day in 2010: Céleri Remoulade (a narrative recipe)

Masaledar Chholay is a Punjabi dish, from a cuisine which I am beginning to learn tends to contain a paste of blended garlic, ginger, and chilis.  (Sorry, that sentence was terrible.  I’m a little burned out at the moment.  The new job is great so far, but much more mentally taxing than the old one.)  It’s a simple dish to put together, and comes largely from pantry staples: canned chickpeas and tomatoes, fresh onions, ginger, garlic, chilis, and cilantro, and a handful of not-very-exotic spices.  Cooking it up, Nick and I both agreed that the flavor was a little flat.  A squeeze of lime juice set things right.

I served it with yogurt-simmered spinach (sort of a cheater’s saag paneer), kolmino patio (yet another hit from Miss Masala - spicy sweet-and-sour shrimp), and basmati rice.  The most colorful place settings possible completed the scene.

To see a couple more takes on the dish, check out the other Currypalooza posts at more please by Margie and Sage Trifle.

And with that, I wish you a great weekend!

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Valençay is one of my favorite goat cheeses.  I picked up a gorgeous one at the market last weekend, and when Nick decided to take some lovely photos of it, I realized it was high time I gave this flat-topped pyramid a moment in the spotlight.

This cheese, which is named for the Loire Valley town in which it is produced, earned AOC status in 1998, making Valençay the first place in France to have AOCs for both their wine and their cheese.  Legend has it that Napoleon, upon returning from a particularly unsuccessful business trip to Egypt, stopped at the château in Valençay and flew into a rage upon seeing the local cheese in the shape of a pyramid.  He lopped off the top with his sword, thus giving the cheese its current signature shape.

Stories aside, Valençay is made using only raw goat’s milk.  It’s rubbed with salted ashes and left to mature for about 3 weeks, during which time a thin, bloomy gray rind develops.  Just underneath the mellow, earthy rind lies the firm yet creamy interior.  It has a pleasant citrusy tang, and is only mildly goaty.  Even though it may look intimidating to cheese newbies (I myself used to shy away from ashed or ashy-looking cheeses), Valençay is not at all challenging.  Which is not to say that die-hard cheese lovers don’t appreciate it.  On the contrary, I think this is one that just about anyone can enjoy.

I bought this particular cheese from the very friendly proprietor of La Ferme de la Prairie (known in some circles as the UCG – Ultimate Cheese Guy), who sells only goat cheeses, and for very reasonable prices.  While a typical Valençay might cost 7 or 8 euros, his comes in at 5 and change.  He also provides samples of several of his cheeses, with a liberal tasting policy – knives and cheeses are placed on top of the counter, it’s up to you to cut your own tastes.  He’ll ask how aged or fresh you’d like your cheese, and if you’re not sure, he’s happy to give his opinion.  A visit to his stand is a must if I’m at the Grenelle market on Sunday morning.

On this day in 2010: Chartres

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Scene 1: Sunday evening, 5:00 pm.  Nick and Camille return home after a much-longer-than-anticipated outing.  Nick is carrying a baguette.

Snoopy: Mew!

Nick: Hey, Snoopy. (Goes to the kitchen to set down the bread and pour glasses of water.)

Camille: Hi kitty! Did you miss us?

Snoopy: Mew!  (Runs away to the living room, where she lies down on the floor.)

Camille: Oh, you need to be petted. (Kneels down and pets the cat.)

Nick: Did you have a hard day, Snoopy?

Camille (Looking at clock): Holy crap, is it five already?  How long was that bike ride?  Three hours?

Nick:  I guess so.

Camille: Damn!  I know I planned on writing a blog post, but now I don’t feel like writing anything.  I want to bake a cake!  And make chicken stock.  That just feels more important right now.

Nick: Go for it.  Do what makes you happy.  I’m not going to complain about any of that.

Camille: I saw this recipe for apple-cream cheese bread on emiglia’s blog.  And we need to use up some of these apples.

Nick: Who?

Camille: You know, we went on the hike and picnic?  And it rained?

Nick: Right.

Camille: Anyway, we don’t have any cream cheese, so I’m going to use the rest of that goat cheese in the fridge.

Nick: Fine, and if you want to write about it…

Camille: I’m not going to write about it, I’m just making her recipe with one little change.

Scene 2: A little later.  Nick is at the table, doing some work.  Camille is in the kitchen, surrounded by bags of sugar and flour, measuring cups, the scale, etc.  She weighs some flour and writes in her notebook.

Camille: Actually, I’m making a lot of changes.  Remember that special Columbian sugar* that Nick and Becky brought us for our housewarming? I’m using it.  And I’m using less of it.  And changing the eggs and the leavener and the spices just a bit…

Nick: OK.

Camille: But I think it’s going to be really good.  I’m excited.

Nick (Comes into the kitchen and tastes the goat cheese filling): Mmm, me, too!

Scene 3: After dinner.  Nick and Camille are on the couch, watching The Daily Show on Camille’s computer.

Nick: One more, then bed?

Camille: Yes, bed.

Nick: Dessert?

Camille: Yeah, do you want pumpkin stuff or the apple cake I just baked?

Nick: Pumpkin.  We need to eat that stuff.  Besides, I want the cake for breakfast.

Camille (nodding in agreement): It WILL make an excellent breakfast.

Apple-Goat Cheese Breakfast Cake

This cake isn’t really sweet enough for dessert, but it’s just right for breakfast. Keeping the skins on the apples makes for fruity bursts throughout the cake, which could be amplified by stirring in a handful of dried cranberries or raisins, if you’re so inclined. The honeyed goat cheese filling is already a perfect accompaniment, but a smear of chunky peanut butter is always welcome.

For the cake:
1 1/3 c. / 7 oz. / 200 g unbleached all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. fine sea salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
pinch freshly grated nutmeg
pinch ground ginger

2 apples, cored and grated
½ c. / 4 oz. / 115 g unsalted butter, melted
¾ c. / 5.5 oz / 155 g panela pulverisada* (light brown sugar would be a fine substitute)
1 egg
1 egg white (save the yolk for the filling)
1 tsp. vanilla extract

1. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and spices. In a separate bowl, combine the grated apple, butter, sugar, egg, and vanilla. Gently mix the dry ingredients into the wet.

For the filling:
4 oz. / 115 g fresh goat cheese
1 egg yolk
2 Tbsp. / 1.5 oz. / 45 g honey
pinch sea salt

1. Mash the ingredients together with a spoon until uniform.

To assemble and bake:

1. Preheat the oven to 355 F / 180 C. Butter a 9”x 4” loaf pan (22 x 10 cm or approximate equivalent).
2. Spread about two-thirds of the cake batter in the bottom of the pan. Spoon four blobs of goat cheese filling down the center. Top with remaining cake batter.
3. Bake until the cake springs back to the touch, and a toothpick inserted comes out with only a few crumbs. This should take about 40-45 minutes. Cool, slice, and serve. Store any leftovers wrapped in foil, and eat within two days.

Makes one loaf, about 8 slices.

*Panela pulverisada is made by grinding blocks of evaporated cane juice to a powder.  It has a faintly molasses-y aroma, and is a bit sweeter and richer than regular sugar.

On this day in 2008: The Winter Squash Saga, Part I: Lasagna

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Out this month, Maman’s Homesick Pie: A Persian Heart in an American Kitchen, is a delightful read.  The author, Donia Bijan, was chef at Palo Alto’s L’Amie Donia for ten years.  Before that, she studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris (under the same directrice as Julia Child!), gaining an internship at Fauchon and stagiare work at several of France’s starred restaurants.

The book outlines her journey from childhood in pre-revolutionary Iran to exile in the United States to France and finally making a home in the Bay Area.  Bijan’s mother, who sounds like an incredible woman, supports her daughter through the trials and tribulations of leaving loved ones, moving to new countries, and learning to cook.  The storytelling is warm and sympathetic.  Best of all, the recipes sprinkled throughout – two per chapter – are mouthwatering and make sense in the context of the story.  One of my pet peeves with these food memoirs that seem to be popping up everywhere these days is that the recipes feel like they’re just plopped in there with no rhyme or reason.  That is not the case with Maman’s Homesick Pie.  Each one belongs, from the simple childhood memories of Cardamom Tea, Pomegranate Granita, and Saffron Yogurt Rice with Chicken and eggplant to dutifully practiced French classics such as Duck à l’Orange, Ratatouille, and Rabbit with Mustard.

Several of the recipes tempted me, but the one that ended up getting made first was the Roast Duck Legs with Dates and warm Lentil Salad.  Sweet, savory, and rich, the crisp-skinned duck was complimented beautifully by roasted dates and toothsome lentils in a pomegranate sauce.  I had leftover lentils and sauce, so I cooked a duck breast to serve with them, which was maybe even better than the legs.  (I admit I am not very good at carving meat off of bones at the table, which diminishes my enjoyment of such dishes.  I had been hoping for a more confit-like texture on the legs.)  But I just bought some quinces so I can try the Roasted Stuffed Quince with Fennel Sausage and Currants, and the Braised Chicken with Persian Plums sounds like it will be just perfect on cold winter nights.  The sweets sound good, too – Rose Petal Ice Cream, Cardamom Honey Madeleines, and Pistachio Brittle all sound like lovely excuses to explore the Persian shops that proliferate on my street.

If the story is missing anything, it’s just a few juicy details – how did Donia manage to meet her husband when she was spending all her time in kitchens?  Whatever happened to her college friend, who may or may not have been a boyfriend, with whom she keeps in touch but never gets mentioned again?  Why do her sisters not play a more prominent role?  I just feel like there’s so much I still don’t know.  But I guess the fact that I want to know more is testament to the interest of the story, and how by the end, you consider Donia Bijan a friend.

On this day in 2010: Boca Mexa - Paris’ answer to Chipotle… until Chipotle opens, one of these days.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Here are my spice racks.  They hold, in theory, the spices I use most often.  I also have two 2-liter size plastic bins in my pantry, both of them stuffed with esoteric spices.  And then there’s half a shelf of jars, too, filled with spices bought in bulk at Asian, Indian, and Latin shops.  I’m not saying you need to devote as much of your precious kitchen space to spice storage as I do – for one thing, if I had a spice grinder I could stop keeping stuff like cinnamon and coriander in both whole and powdered form – but it’s worth stocking a few basic spices, which can then be combined in any number of ways.

This post is inspired by a good friend of mine who recently spent the better part of the day scouring American stores in Paris in hopes of finding a jar of McCormick’s chili powder.  (They do make chili powder in France, but too often it inexplicably contains curry spices, which is just plain weird.)  I tried to convince her that spicing chili was not all that complicated given ground chilis, cumin, and some fresh garlic, but she remained unsure.  It got me to thinking that I really don’t buy pre-blended spices at all  (I make an exception for garam masala, though when my current stash runs out, I probably won’t buy more, instead mixing up my own), and haven’t for quite some time.

I’ve always been fascinated with spices.  As a child, I used to peruse the row of Spice Islands jars my parents kept lined up on the kitchen counter, imagining the myriad of magical flavor combinations within.  When I started cooking a little for myself (mostly eggs and ramen, often together) I would pick and choose my favorites to add to my concoctions, in hopes that I might discover some heretofore unknown deliciousness.  Doubtless I killed more than one plate of scrambled eggs with one too many dashes of Old Hickory Smoked Salt, but I did learn that thyme and eggs were wonderful together.  That seasoning the ramen broth myself with soy sauce and garlic powder was way better than that mystery spice packet.  That if you’re cooking taco meat, and you’re out of taco seasoning, you can read the ingredients on the burrito seasoning (which you obviously can’t use directly, because it was for burritos) and approximate what might be in that taco seasoning.

My comfort level with individual spices, then, has been a long process.  I don’t expect everyone to be able to do it overnight, so here are a few guidelines for some common spice blends.  I’ll list the ingredients from most to least prominent, and leave it up to you to determine which ratios work best for you.  I also recommend, instead of mixing the spices first and adding them all at once, to add each spice to the dish individually and taste as you go.  If you’re the meticulous type, you can keep detailed notes of what you’ve added, or take the more organic route, winging it as you go.  And don’t forget the salt.

Chili Powder: ground chilis (I tend to keep several varieties around, and use them in combination), fresh chilis, fresh garlic or garlic powder, ground cumin, dried oregano or thyme.  Optional: cinnamon, epazote, cloves, cocoa powder.

Curry Powder: (the big ones): ground turmeric, black and white pepper, cardamom, cumin, coriander seed, cinnamon, ground or fresh ginger; (use in lesser quantities): cloves, cayenne, mace or nutmeg, fennel seed, bay leaf, fenugreek, mustard seeds, asafoetida.

Apple Pie Spice: ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ground ginger, ground cloves, maybe allspice.

Pumpkin Pie Spice: ground cinnamon, ground ginger, nutmeg, ground cloves.  Optional: allspice, black pepper.

Pickling Spice: (use whole) mustard seed, coriander seed, chili flake, fresh garlic, bay leaf, fresh dill or parsley.

Mulling Spices: (for cider or wine, use whole) cinnamon, cloves, allspice, star anise, orange peel, black peppercorns.

Old Bay Seasoning: celery seed, paprika, black pepper, cayenne, bay leaf, mustard powder, ground allspice, ground mace.

Seasoned Salt: (in addition to the salt) fresh garlic or garlic powder, celery seed, onion powder (or just put onions in whatever you’re cooking), paprika, white pepper, turmeric.

Lemon Pepper: (this one should be obvious) lemon zest, black pepper.

Whole spices, toasted and then ground, will offer the biggest flavor, but pre-ground are fine, too (except for nutmeg, which you should always grate fresh).

If I’ve left out your favorite spice blend, let me know in the comments, and I’ll do my best to help you out.

On this day in 2010: Worthwhile French Beers: Val’Aisne Blonde

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

A week ago today, I gave my notice at work.  (You may already have seen this if you’re a friend of mine on Facebook, or if you read Lindsey’s blog, Lost in Cheeseland, where I’m the subject of her Franco File Friday interview this week.  And if you’re new here from Lindsey’s place, welcome!  Make yourself comfortable.)

You may remember, back in June, I mentioned a career dilemma I was having.  It was mostly resolved by July, which was a relief, but it’s been hard keeping it under my hat this long.  I’m so excited that I can finally tell you all what I’ve been up to.

Starting in November, I will be the executive pastry chef for a  brand new gourmet hamburger restaurant called Blend.  We’re hoping to open in late November or early December, so I get to spend most of the month of November working on getting the place up and running, testing recipes, and finalizing the menu.  I don’t think I need to tell you how awesome that is.  You can keep up to date on our progress by liking Blend’s Facebook page, if you’re so inclined.

“Why does a hamburger restaurant need a pastry chef, anyway?” you may be wondering.   Well, I’ll be keeping busy baking handmade buns and signature desserts, as well as developing new recipes for weekly specials that highlight seasonal changes.  Any extra time and energy I have will be funneled into salads, condiments, and best of all, developing the beer list!  The way I see it, this job is nothing short of defending the best parts of the American culinary tradition in France.  I can’t wait to get started.

And now, the book.  Lent to me by my soon-to-be boss, Burger Bar is something of a mirror image of what we’re doing.  Hubert Keller, a French chef, opened a now-iconic burger restaurant in Las Vegas, and the book shares some of his best recipes, from burgers to shakes.

There’s a very clever dessert burger, with a doughnut bun, strawberry tomatoes, kiwi lettuce, and so on.  I’ll probably never make it, but it delights me that it exists.  What I will be making are the condiments (piquillo pepper ketchup?  don’t mind if I do.) and the deceptively simple sides.  I can’t wait to try the panisse recipe – they’re a specialty of Southeastern France, like fried polenta sticks, only made with chickpea flour.  And I can tell you from experience that the oven fries, featuring unpeeled red potatoes and duck fat, are as delicious as they are easy to make.

All that, and then there’s the burgers themselves.  The flavor combinations range from classic to eclectic, with influences from cuisines all over the globe.  There’s even a little section about beverage pairings, and the photos are gorgeous, too.  My only complaint is that there aren’t any recipes for buns.  (Hey, a girl’s gotta do her research, you know?)

On this day in 2010: Luxury Leftovers – includes a recipe for Smoky Herbed Bread Pudding, which you should definitely try.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Christian Etchebest is one of Paris’ most beloved bistrotiers (is that a word?  Like a restaurateur, but for a bistro?).  His original Troquet is much-loved, though rumor has it he’s sold the mothership in order to focus on a new project.  In the meantime, though, he’s still running the convivial, no-reservations offshoot, La Cantine du Troquet.

Nick and I met some food-loving friends there a couple of Thursdays ago.  We had misread their opening hours (they open at 7pm, not 8 as we had thought) and as a result, had to wait out on the sidewalk for a table to open up.  It was a balmy evening, though, and was not at all an unpleasant wait, with a platter of Basque chorizo balanced on the wine barrel out front for all to share, and ordering bottles or carafes of wine to drink while standing on the corner is not only sanctioned, but encouraged.

Over our wine (poured from a liter carafe of totally drinkable – and totally affordable at 18 euros – Bandol red), we studied the chalkboard menu posted outside, our mouths watering over the beef cheeks and the lomo dish.  Of course, by the time we got seated, both had been stricken from the real-time-updated indoor chalkboard.  Not to be deterred that easily, I asked the waitress about the beef cheeks.  She said they were out, but they had a pork cheek dish to replace it.  I, and two of my three companions, said “yes, please.”

To start, I ordered the salad with goat cheese and fresh figs (which I always order when given the chance).  Nick, feeling adventurous, went for the crispy pig’s ears.

Both were served on those impractical-yet-trendily-ubiquitous slate plates.  Other than that, though, I loved my salad.  Knowing that my main course was likely to be on the heavy side, I appreciated the fresh note, and ordering a salad makes it easy for me to convince myself I’m eating something healthy.  Plus, it’s hard to go wrong with goat cheese and fresh fruit.  Nick’s salad came loaded with fried strips of pig ear, some certainly crispier and more appetizing than others.  (Having tasted these, I’m inclined to agree with Ryan of Nose to Tail at Home when he says that these really can’t be sliced thinly enough.)

Our friends opted for a double order of couteaux, or razor clams, which here in France tend to come served in the shells from which they derive their name.  (As opposed to in the States, where more often than not they are butterflied, breaded, and fried.)

They generously let me taste one, and the clams were great – somehow simultaneously briny and meaty.

And then came the swoonworthy pork cheeks.

Slow-cooked and tender, the cheeks were bathed in a gravy-like tomato sauce and served atop a pool of incredibly creamy potato purée.  I made a valiant effort, but couldn’t quite finish the generous portion (I did, I admit, scrape up every last drop of potatoes).  As such, I couldn’t justify ordering dessert, though the caramelized plums sure sounded tempting.  We also noticed about this point that the group seated next to us at the long communal table were all getting the same thing, and they had several courses.  Upon closer inspection of the chalkboard, we saw that the kitchen offers a menu dégustation for 32 euros, which, judging from what we saw on our neighbors’ plates, is a screaming bargain for at least four courses.  Next time, we’re totally trying that.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

But do you know what seemed like an even better idea?  Freezing it.  Seasoning it with a little basil, grown in our very own windowbox (thanks to Katia for the seedling!), and ensuring that even on cloudy days in September, we could still have a taste of the fleeting sunshine.

This sorbet recipe could very easily be prepared as a granita instead, by following the instructions here.  No ice cream maker required!  Should you be looking for something to do with the watermelon rind that inevitably gets tossed, might I suggest pickling?  (And may I ask for your suggestions on ways to serve said pickles?)  Lastly, if you’re still working on a mountain of zucchini from an overproductive garden, and want something new to do with them, try my recipe for vol-au-vents with Provençal zucchini over at Girls’ Guide to Paris.  It might be something you haven’t made before.

Watermelon-Basil Sorbet

Tastes like pure summer.

1 lb. 10 oz. / 750g watermelon, cut into chunks (weigh after cutting off the rind)
pinch sea salt
1 cup / 225ml basil syrup (recipe below)
½ lime or lemon, juice (optional)

1. Combine the watermelon with the salt and syrup. Liquefy in a food processor, blender, or in a bowl with a hand blender. Taste. If it’s too sweet, brighten the flavor with a squeeze of citrus juice. Chill thoroughly.
2. Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
3. Serve in chilled glasses with sprigs of basil for garnish. For a more elaborate presentation, top with dollops of lightly sweetened whipped cream, a drizzle of reduced balsamic vinegar, and a sprinkling of black pepper.

* * *

Basil Syrup

A great way to add some herbal nuance to cocktails, too!

3 stems fresh sweet basil, with leaves
1 cup / 225ml water
8 oz. / 225g sugar

1. Put everything in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Remove from heat and steep 15-30 minutes. Strain and chill completely before using.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

So here it is.  Enjoy.

On this day in 2009: One of a Pear (Spiced Pear Coffee Cake)

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Though it’s only a couple of blocks from the much-lauded Grande Epicerie, Coutume‘s location on a nondescript portion of the rue de Babylone makes it feel further off the beaten path than it actually is.  Combine that with the mostly Anglophone staff and the artfully unfinished, postmodern-meets-neoclassical décor, and you’ve got a Parisian coffee shop that would be equally at home in New York or London, if not more so.

I, for one, am glad that it’s here in Paris.  It’s pretty well documented that I am a tea-drinker, and the selection of organic teas here make me very happy.  They also take great care, serving each tea in its own individual teapot, with instructions about how long to let it steep for optimum flavor.  But I can appreciate a well-made cup of coffee, too, and Coutume has those in spades.

It’s actually something of a coffee-geek’s paradise, with single-origin beans roasted to perfection on the premises, and your choice of any brewing method from espresso to 24-hour cold infusion.  The most entertaining by far is the one brewed on these steampunk-y contraptions:

I watched the little one on the right with fascination as it boiled water, forcing it up into the beaker on top, at which point the barista poured in freshly ground coffee.  The coffee then slowly drips back down through a filter.  Nick pointed out that this method actually ends up brewing the coffee with just-below-boiling-temperature water, the better to extract the delicate aromas without overcooking the coffee.  Sounds good to me.

Coutume serves food, too.  The breakfast formule, with three mini-viennoiseries (croissant, pain au chocolat, pain aux raisins), hot beverage of your choice (coffee, tea, or hot chocolate), and a glass of freshly-squeezed juice (orange or grapefruit) is a decent buy, especially for this neighborhood, coming in under eight euros.  They also have a more elaborate brunch menu, with eggs, bacon, and the like, and they serve organic sandwiches and salads for lunch.  For dessert, you can choose between pastries from La Pâtisserie des Rêves or ice cream from the Raimo cart in front.  (I haven’t been back since they re-opened for the rentrée, so I don’t know if this is a year-round thing or a special treat for the summer months.)

A place that takes coffee seriously is still a rarity in Paris, so I feel lucky that Coutume is only a short metro ride away from my apartment.  And we should all be glad that it’s open seven days a week, because what is Sunday without a leisurely cup of delicious coffee?

On this day in 2010: Like Flies to Honey?

Originally published on Croque-Camille.