When The Spirit Moves You

    Somewhere in the middle of 2007’s “There Will Be Blood,” Daniel Plainview, played to great effect by Daniel Day Lewis, sits for an afternoon meal with his son.  They order steak, milk for the kid and, for Plainview, a ruthless oil tycoon, a large tumbler of whiskey.  It is a tense scene, fraught with balance and nuance, but I don’t think the writers had the gustatory aspect in mind when they penned it.  And yet, I can’t help but be reminded of Plainview’s hard stares and his son’s discomfort whenever I am confronted by the curious practice of accompanying food with hard liquor.      

   I may welcome whiskey after a rich steak dinner, but the idea of joining the two doesn’t appeal to me.  I don’t know if this has something to do  with the whiskey itself, or the fattiness of grilled meat, or just the missed opportunity of a firmly structured red wine.  Whatever the case, drinking spirits with food is a tricky business, but when it works it can be memorable.  

    The martini, by which I mean gin and vermouth in desperately fought-over proportions, has a mercurial savory side.  I’m not talking about the custom of adding a brined olive, although I imagine that practice stems from the very quality to which I refer.  Even when adorned with the more sensible lemon peel twist, the martini gives the impression that it works with food.  This must have to do with the herbaceous core of the gin and the fruity, yeast-like quality of vermouth.  The combination seems to cry-out for salt.  I recommend a dry-ish martini and a plate of steak tartare.  This works for two reasons really.  One, the mineral character of the fresh beef seems to respond to the bracing quality of gin.  The other reason is more practical: between all those garnishes (chopped capers, raw shallots, etc.), seasonings and raw egg, the prospects of a successful wine pairing seems dim.

    Very cold vodka drunk alongside shellfish is another good idea.  I discovered this several years ago during a dismal New Year’s Eve party, enlivened only by what must have been an expensive fruits de mer tower.  At some stage someone produced a bottle of good vodka from the freezer which, we later learned from the host,  was left behind by his Russian ex-girlfriend.  It was glycerine-like when poured and, rather than potent and flavorless, which had been my impression of vodka before that evening, had definite body and mineral complexity.  We drank quickly from small ceramic shot glasses between bites of crab, oyster, clam, prawn and smoked salmon.  I think the success of the union had as much to do with what wasn’t present in the vodka--namely, strong taste--as it did with what was there.  It was a cold and clean foil to the fish, far more adept than any wine would have been, including Champagne.  

    Of course I’m not the first to recognize these happy marriages.  Russians, who wash all sorts of things down with vodka, including fish in several forms, would be the first to point this out.  The Scandinavians with their delectable smorgesboards drink akvavit, which, while often flavored with spices and herbs, serves very much in the same capacity as did the Vodka that revelatory New Years Eve.  One may read these things with some level of interest, but there really is no substitute for personal discovery.  Which makes me wonder: perhaps I ought to give Mr Plainview the benefit of the doubt and pour whiskey the next time I cook a steak.

You will find keeping things chilly crucial to enjoyment.  Crystal flutes can't hurt either.

Upper Crust

A spring-form pan means you won't feel compelled to hold your breath while plating.  

   A rich, sturdy pastry is invaluable.  Of course, like scones, or the poor martini, it is particularly susceptible to innovation, that constant vulture of the modest and pure.  Or, too often, pastry becomes merely the vehicle--an edible utensil--and as such, isn’t thoughtfully constructed.  And though there are expensive examples from France, frozen pastry is roundly an abomination.  Pastry must be made by hand.

    The ideal is toothsome, capable of encasing country pate, or stew, or whole roasted pears.  The hardiness of your pastry will depend upon the flour you use and you might vary your choice depending upon your intended application.  All-purpose flour has the highest gluten content and will, at the expense of some tenderness, make the hardiest pastry.  Cake flour has the lowest gluten and, at the expense of structure, will make tender pastry.  I prefer a mixture of the two in equal proportions.  In fact, one occasionally sees a similar mixture sold as “pastry flour.”  

    Pastry must also be flavorful; while lard or high-grade shortening might help the flake, neither contributes much in the way of flavor.   I recommend cultured, unsalted butter made in the continental style.  Not only does it seem to hold up to the required folding; it adds a desirable lactic zip to your finished dough.  

    Coldness is crucial.  Make everything very cold: mixing bowl, flour, butter, utensils, water--salt even.  In fact, coldness is perhaps the most important ingredient.  I measure and sift the flour into a bowl with the salt, reserve the cubed butter in another bowl and, along with the water, put everything in the refrigerator for an hour prior to preparation.  Use the hour to clean a countertop.  A clean countertop goes a long way toward successful pastry.  

    Pastry is often associated with the holiday season, when it holds savory fillings alongside cocktails, or cream and fruit at the end of a meal.  It features prominently at my table from Thanksgiving through New Years, but there is no reason it should be ignored the rest of the year.  Roasted end-of-summer tomatoes sing in a deep-walled pastry tart, and it will do well atop a spring vegetable fricassee.  And, of course: quiche.  While its deployment varies, the ingredients and method do not.  Which returns us to the subject of innovation.  Pastry should not be considered a blank canvas to doctor according to a theme.  If your pastry is to hold chorizo, there is no reason to incorporate Manchego into the dough in a clever nod to Spain.  Resist the urge to season your pastry with cinnamon for your one-bite apple-pies.  Incorporating herbs, as innocent as it seems, will, perhaps only at the molecular level, alter the exquisite balance otherwise evident between pastry and beef in your wellington.  

    Permit pastry its rich neutrality.   It is a familiar expert that can improve the ungainliest partner, but that ability fades the moment one begins monkeying about with the spice rack.  Recipe/Method below photo.

The bottom leaf reveals the toothsome layers achieved by folding the pastry.  Some, but not too much puff.  

Ingredients:

1 Pound of cultured, unsalted butter, cubed

2 Cups of all-purpose flour, sifted

2 Cups of cake flour, sifted

2 Cups filtered water, cold

1 Pinch of salt (fine)

Method:

Remove the bowl of flour and the bowl of cubed butter from the refrigerator.  Distribute evenly the butter in the flour, coating each cube.  If you haven’t done so already, add the salt.  Working quickly with two cold butter knives, start cutting the butter into the flour.  This is efficiently done by plunging the knives into the center of the mass and pulling in opposite directions toward the rim of the bowl repeatedly.  The goal is very course bread crumbs, as one might expect from pulsing stale bread in a processor.  

Put the bowl of cut-in butter and flour back in the fridge for a few minutes to regain its coldness.  Use the time to ensure your work surface is clean.  Remove the bowl and the chilled water to the side of your clean work surface.  Using a wooden spoon or spatula, gently begin folding water, a little at a time, into your butter/flour mixture. The idea is to add just enough so a dough forms that will pull away from the bowl en masse, but not enough to make anything visibly wet.  You will probably have half a cup of water remaining.

Lightly flour your clean work surface; remove your dough from your bowl to your (clean!) surface.  Working quickly, begin packing your dough together until all scraps are incorporated.  Once formed, press your dough out in all directions using the heel of your hand.  Lift half of your flattened dough and gently fold it over itself.  Repeat two or three times until the dough seems capable of withstanding a rolling pin.  

Flour your rolling pin and your surface (if necessary).  Working quickly, roll your dough out to a thickness of half an inch, being mindful to retain a rectangular shape.  Fold your dough in thirds and roll.  Repeat half a dozen times.   Avoid overworking your dough; try and accomplish the above with as little contact with your dough as possible.  

Wrap in plastic and allow to relax and cool for an hour before further application. 

A Jarring Realization

Undaunted by reduced numbers, my jars reclaim their ancestral shelf space.  

    Something like sixty empty jam jars once buckled a shelf in my kitchen.  My then girlfriend (who agreed to marry me a few years later) thought it was weird; in fact before she would take our courtship any further she insisted I reduce my holdings considerably.  I obliged, filling my shelves with designer tumblers and, eventually, the cut-glass tokens that uselessly accompany matrimony.  For several years I longed for my stout jam jars; if not sixty, then a scant dozen to remind me that a bohemian streak glimmered still beneath the forced conformity that hobbles so many young couples. 

    Why jam jars?  A Swiss father and English mother from an early age inculcated the appreciation of warm toast, butter and jam, a pleasure I practice to this day most mornings.  With the jam, of course, comes a jar and a lid, and, when finished, the pressing question of whether to toss both or clean them for reuse.  In leaner collegiate times, one could justify the regular purchase of pricey European preserves by making a firm commitment to retain the empties.  A collection of half a dozen precluded further glassware; an expanded collection eliminated the need for tupperware.  Assuming collegiates still use things like pens, toothbrushes and razors, the jam jar is handy.  I understand they keep loose cigarettes fresh, and I had a girlfriend once who kept all her makeup in a few.  

    I must have consumed jam at a faster rate than my friends smashed or stole my jars, for I found one day in my early working life I had amassed several dozen.  For one reason or another, my apartment became a sort of regular meeting place for friends and colleagues, and my jars rose to modest notoriety.  I occasionally speak to old acquaintances from those carefree times who recall, if not much else, my jam jars.  

    I should pause here to specifically address the jam jar’s place as a drinking vessel.  Moonshiners once favored the preserving-type jar for packaging their liquor, and similar molded glass cups and mugs have served in busy bistros and beer halls across Europe since the widespread manufacturing of the stuff began two centuries ago.  Today’s jam jar is an ideal tumbler: strong, correctly sized, and unprecious.  The lid is handy should you have to dash suddenly but wish to retain your drink, say at a house party which disturbs the peace.  In more civilized surroundings the lid becomes a coaster, protecting grateful sideboards and mantels.  And then there are the ineffable qualities to consider.  A jam jar seems to cheer up poor wine; very good wine drunk from a jam jar will feel illicit--as if you’ve stolen the bottle from an oppressive employer.  

    Other uses.  If you have any inclination toward pickling things you will quickly discover large mason-type jars are too big.  (Who really is going to use a pint of pickled okra)?  The small jam jar is different; its manageable size will encourage experiments with the dregs of your vegetable drawer.  Pickled kohlrabi, for instance, is delightful with cold beef, and I credit the jam jar for the discovery.

    If you enjoy pottering around the house, try this: firmly glue several lids to the bottom of a shelf.  Once affixed, the jars can be screwed into the lids creating transparent and convenient storage for nuts, bolts, clips, tacks and twine.  Actually, if you are the crafty sort, you doubtless have other ideas with which to fill the comments section below.  

    Strangely enough, following a dreary eight year dearth, jam jars once more dominate our shelves.  Stranger still is the culprit for the reinvigorated collection: a baby.  In a sweet I told you so moment the other day, I glanced over my shoulder to see my wife with two jars.  One contained left-over soup, which she uncapped and popped in the microwave for our daughter’s lunch.  The other she gave to our daughter who methodically filled it with odd bits of her sidewalk chalk.  I couldn’t mask a smile.  Perhaps these uses aren’t in the same romantic spirit as those cocktail parties of years past, but it makes me immeasurably happy to think a tradition might have been created.

House Party Dash:

Throw several ice cubes (or a handful of crushed ice) into a jam jar along with two ounces of whiskey, an ounce of lemon juice and a sugar cube.  Put the lid on and shake vigorously until the sugar has mostly disappeared.  Top with a splash of soda.  And keep the lid handy for Pete’s sake. 

Bread and Butter Kohlrabi Chips:

Thinly slice some kohlrabi and put it in a sterilized jam jar.  Heat up two cups of apple-cider vinegar in a small saucepan with ten whole peppercorns, a teaspoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves and a a tablespoon each of salt and sugar.  Pour the mixture into the jar and seal with the lid.  Put in the refrigerator.  You’ll notice the jar will vacuum-seal itself as it cools.

Pickled things, plus several ounces of rendered bacon fat.