CHAPTER 5

SPICES

You can’t underestimate the power of spices in cooking. Not only are they the single most powerful tool for adding flavor to a dish, but their combinations are like culinary fingerprinting.

Blending certain spices together creates identities for food. Cumin, coriander, oregano? Instant Mexican overtones. But move coriander into a bowl with black pepper and mustard seeds and now you’re in India.

You might not know that spices have the potential for such impact if the sum of your experience with them is the musty, years-old jars sitting on a spice rack, or that prepackaged spice blend that’s mostly salt and garlic powder. I can say that because that was me before moving to Houston. But as I began trying dishes and cuisines that were new to me, spices quickly made their presence—and their power over my palate—known.

The first time I tried phở, I remember the process of trying to register all the familiar-yet-altogether-new flavors with each sip of the fragrant broth. In a savory soup, the cinnamon and star anise that added a warm, licoricey depth tasted like something completely different from the cinnamon I thought I knew.

I also learned quickly to pay attention and respect to spices after unsuspectingly biting down on a cardamom pod while eating biryani at my favorite Indian restaurant, London Sizzler. I’ve met a similar fate when thoughtlessly enjoying a bowl of bò kho and nearly cracking a tooth on a star anise pod. Once you’ve chomped on a whole spice pod, it’s hard to forget. As my friend and spice mentor Sue Patel, the chef of London Sizzler, says, “You should be paying attention to your food.” She meant it as a warning to not bite blindly, but I also take it to mean that taking care to notice the flavors of spices in a dish really brings the experience to another level.

When your eyes (and taste buds) are open to the power of spices, it’s a little bit easier to understand why they have such an important, albeit messed-up, history. Spices have been at the center of wars and have led to the colonization of countries and trade conflicts that kept entire populations in poverty. It can be hard to imagine, in this age where a spice rack is so mundane, that spices were so prized and rare as to cause all this. But it’s true. Black pepper was, at certain times in history, valued as much as gold.

Why? Because spices provide one of the most essential elements in life: flavor. When I look at my inventory of spices, I see the simplest way to give food a personality. When I’m eating dishes for the first time, the presence of certain spices acts as a roadmap, showing me both the commonalities and the distinctions between cultures. Other pros? They are shelf stable and (these days) relatively affordable, considering that you need only small amounts of most spices to make a big impact on your cooking.

The recipes in this chapter are meant to help bring spices to the forefront of your cooking instincts. They will teach you, hopefully, how to season more heavily, or season with more confidence, by using the techniques and combinations of the people and cultures who know these flavors best.

KNOWING YOUR SPICES

Generally speaking, spices are the flavorful, hard parts of certain aromatic plants—the seeds, bark, roots, rhizomes, and the like—and herbs are the softer leaves; the spice coriander, for instance, is the seed of the plant that produces the herb cilantro. (And yes, there are lots of confusing exceptions, because saffron is considered a spice—the most valued one in the world, in fact—but it’s the stamen of a flower.)

Spices were traded across huge distances as early as 2600 BC. But the cultivation of spices was incredibly limited, and very controlled—pepper, for instance, from the southern part of India, and cloves and nutmeg from what was then known as the Spice Islands, or modern-day Indonesia and Malaysia.

Essentially every empire throughout the Middle Ages and beyond made a play to control the spice trade, from the Visigoths to Christopher Columbus, whose attempt to find a new route to Asia for spices, among other things, ran him aground in the Americas instead.

And this ongoing, long history of global trade is in large part what gives us so many culinary commonalities between cultures. You can explain the similarities in the spices used in certain Mexican dishes and Middle Eastern dishes by this history (Middle Eastern spices and cooking techniques came up to Spain through the Moors, and then across the Atlantic to Mexico during Spanish colonization). Spices provide the long lens and multicentury version of the same story that American food, inspired by the arrival of so many different influences, tells today.

BUYING, STORING, AND TREATING SPICES

Whole versus ground

You’ll hear a lot of chefs say that you have to buy spices whole and grind them yourself. But I say: If grinding your own spices sounds overwrought for a Tuesday night dinner, feel free to go with preground spices, and spend those extra few minutes of your life reading or talking or drinking whiskey—I won’t judge you.

But when you’re in the kitchen with the luxury of time, this is one of those meditative steps that lead to an improved product, especially for the recipes in this chapter.

There’s one caveat: Please, always grind black pepper as you need it. Pepper grinders are readily available, making it easy to accomplish this quickly, and the effect it has on the flavor is huge.

Toasting spices

When using whole spices, you can take the optional step of placing them in a dry skillet over medium-high heat for a few minutes, or until their aromas really come through (shake the pan continuously so they don’t burn). Doing this before proceeding with the recipe helps wake up their flavors and makes their presence more pronounced in the dish. I usually toast only whole spices; for ground spices, see “blooming” in the next section. And I follow the rule of thumb that I toast only seeds and pods, not leaves (like dried oregano or thyme or bay), which tend to turn bitter. (And those are technically herbs, anyway!)

Blooming ground spices

For ground spices, you can achieve an effect similar to toasting (unlocking flavor and activating essential oils) by frying the spices for a minute in a little bit of oil before continuing with the recipe; often this means adding the spices to the oil for a moment before the onions or garlic at the beginning of a recipe.

Storage and shelf life

Most hard, whole spices will keep for up to a year in a cool, dry place. Ground spices have a shorter shelf life and will lose potency after about six months.

Buying spices

Most grocery stores have fairly robust spice sections these days. I also use online resources, such as Amazon, Penzeys, and Kalustyan’s (the web version of the well-stocked New York specialty food store), to find less common spices.

Spice Combinations to Learn and Love

These are not quite spice “blends” but flavor combinations that I find myself turning to over and over again. You’ll find some of these combinations in the recipes that follow, and some that are just worth committing to memory, knowing that you can always pull these flavors together to make something delicious.

Black pepper, lime juice, jalapeño

Do not underestimate black pepper; good-quality pepper has an incredibly complex, satisfying, floral flavor and warming bite. Always grind it fresh from a pepper mill to get the best effect (preground pepper is sad). Try combining 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper with half of a minced jalapeño and the juice of 2 limes for a condiment that makes any fried seafood taste incredible. This is the classic seasoning for salt-and-pepper shrimp in Vietnam. I think it also goes perfectly with quick seared beef, like skirt steak.

Cinnamon, star anise

This powerful combo forms the flavor base of a number of Vietnamese braises, such as bò and phở broth. Typically these spices are introduced whole rather than ground, and left to simmer in a broth or sauce to impart flavor. In savory applications, these rich, warm spices are especially well suited to beef and lamb. If you’re experimenting, 1 cinnamon stick and 1 or 2 star anise pods are enough to flavor most recipes with a yield of 4 to 8 servings.

Tex-Mex Chili Powder: cumin, coriander, ancho chile powder, cayenne, garlic powder

These are the cornerstones of my take on Tex-Mex taco spice, which can be used to season ground meat for tacos, sure, but is also a great base for chili or enchilada sauce, and even to season queso. Here’s a basic recipe that makes enough to season 1 pound of ground meat. Just stir these together and season away.

MAKES ABOUT 3 TABLESPOONS

1 tablespoon ancho chile powder

1½ teaspoons ground cumin

1 teaspoon crushed red pepper

½ to 1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

¼ teaspoon garlic powder

¼ teaspoon onion powder

Black pepper, yellow mustard seeds, coriander, turmeric

Fry this blend of spices (try ½ teaspoon of each) in some oil, then add 1 pound of any starchy cooked vegetable or pulse (boiled potatoes, blanched cauliflower, chickpeas and tomatoes) for an Indian-inspired vegetable side. Then try turning it loose on chicken or fish or rice. Turmeric and black pepper are a common pair, as certain compounds in black pepper make it easier for the body to absorb the curcumin (a chemical touted for its anti-inflammatory powers) that’s present in turmeric. Mustard also frequently gets matched with turmeric—the latter is sometimes used to add extra yellow brilliance to the condiment. With the addition of coriander, this is a more subtle, muted (but still quite flavorful) abbreviation of my Dry Masala (this page).

MASALA CHICKEN WINGS

SERVES 6 TO 8

I really love chicken wings and could have easily put a wing recipe in every chapter of this book. But in narrowing down our list, this one, based on tandoori chicken and full of cumin, coriander, and ginger in a yogurt marinade, came out as the winner. Yogurt, and other creamy, fatty spreads like butter, sour cream, and mayonnaise, make excellent conveyors of flavor. Certain flavor compounds in spices are fat-soluble and others are water-soluble. Because a rich, full-fat yogurt contains both, it does double duty, carrying the full range of the spices’ flavors. As a bonus, yogurt has lactic acid, which helps to tenderize proteins as they marinate.

Tandoori chicken is technically named for the oven used to cook it—a cylindrical clay oven that looks like a barrel, with the heat source at the bottom. But a grill works well in lieu of a tandoor, and it’s really that combination of tangy yogurt, spices, and aromatics that define these wings for me. Cumin and coriander, in the presence of lime juice, ginger, and fresh herbs, triggers an acknowledgment in my brain that I’m enjoying food inspired by India. Raita, a mixture of yogurt, cucumber, and herbs, acts as the cooling dipping sauce that every wing recipe needs.

FOR THE WINGS

1 cup plain yogurt

½ cup Auntie’s Masala (this page)

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon paprika

1¼ to 2 teaspoons kosher salt

3 pounds chicken wings

FOR THE RAITA

2 cups plain yogurt

2 tablespoons thinly sliced fresh mint

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

1 tablespoon fresh lime juice

1 large English cucumber, halved lengthwise and seeded

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

TO SERVE

½ pound mild green peppers (such as Anaheim or shishito)

Cilantro, for garnish

1. Prepare the wings: In a resealable plastic bag, combine the yogurt, masala, coriander, cumin, cayenne, paprika, and salt. Seal the bag and shake/squeeze until everything is nicely combined. Add the chicken wings, seal, and shake again to coat thoroughly. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours and up to 10.

2. Make the raita: In a medium bowl, whisk together the yogurt, mint, cilantro, and lime juice. Using the large holes of a box grater, grate the cucumber halves. Place the grated cucumber in the center of a clean kitchen towel, bring the corners together, and twist to wring out the excess liquid. Mix the cucumber into the yogurt mixture. Season to taste with salt and pepper, cover, and refrigerate until ready to use.

3. Prepare a very hot grill, creating zones for direct and indirect heat. If you’re using charcoal, you can do this by banking all the coals to one side. On a gas grill, use the burners on only one side, at full blast. Pull the chicken wings out of the marinade, letting the excess drip off. Place the wings over direct heat on the grates and grill, turning occasionally, until they are charred on all sides, about 8 minutes. Move the wings to the indirect heat zone and grill until cooked through, about 15 minutes. Meanwhile, place the green peppers in the direct heat zone and grill until softened and charred all over.

4. Serve the peppers mixed in with the wings and cilantro on a large platter, with the raita on the side for dipping.

Keeping Up with the Patels

I first met Ajay Patel while sitting in the bar of his family’s restaurant, London Sizzler, watching football (in the British sense) with some of my fellow line cooks.

London Sizzler is part Indian restaurant and part British sports pub—most of its clientele is made up of Indian immigrants or British immigrants (or Indian-British immigrants) seeking a place to watch their favorite match.

I’m not particularly hardcore about British football, but I kept going back with friends because of the food. Each visit, I’d study the menu—which was a combination of the typical Indian food you’d see in London (home to a large Indian population, and where the Patels are originally from), plus a few of the specialties from the Gujarat state of India, where the family has roots.

On my third or fourth visit, Ajay came over and started chatting with me. When he learned that I was a chef, he began to hand-pick new dishes for me to try. Slowly, over conversations about sports and the business of running restaurants, I learned about some of the fundamentals of Indian cooking. And I progressed from having a timid palate that was most comfortable with tikka masala, to requesting their sour, complex vindaloo and the spice-heavy stir-fried okra, masala bhindi.

Over these visits, I also got to know Ajay. He was born in the States, during the first time his family tried to emigrate from London, lured by an opportunity to operate a motel in California. Ultimately, the Patels moved back to the UK with tiny Ajay in tow—Ajay’s grandfather had a snack business back in England that was doing really well, and he needed support and help to run it. The Patels, tugged by the emotional and financial needs of their family, sold the motel and returned to London. But when Ajay was a teenager, he returned to the United States for a vacation with friends, and it solidified a plan to move back for school. By age eighteen, he’d moved to Dallas to take college courses and get a job.

But the plan for London Sizzler (and its sister snack shop next door, Masala Munchies) didn’t form until he convinced his parents, Surekha (“Sue”) and Naresh, to make the move to the United States for a second time. They decided to relocate to Dallas, where they knew a handful of people, and had a lead on a space to open a restaurant like the one they were leaving behind in London. But at the last minute, the deal fell through. Within twenty-four hours, a friend in Houston gave them a ring about a lead on a restaurant space in Houston.

Sue or, more familiarly, “Auntie,” is a small woman with a melodic British accent (with a specific lilt of clipped vowels and dropped h’s), a sharp wit, and a crazy amount of talent in the kitchen. She’s the person behind much of the menu at the restaurant, though her husband, Naresh, used to cook alongside her. When I asked her how that went, she laughed. “It’s calmed down now, but before, I used to throw cleavers at him. He’d dodge ’em and laugh at me.”

Her intensity, whether toward her husband or toward the cooks she employs, comes from having high standards. “I’m a perfectionist!” she exclaims. She also has zero tolerance for bullshit or rudeness. (“I’m not afraid to ban people from this place,” she once told me.) But if you show her the respect she’s earned, she’s the most generous person in the world.

On countless occasions she’s taken my phone calls, or let me follow her around in her kitchen to answer my questions about spices. “American people think that Indian food is all about chiles,” she once said to me, “but usually the flavor they identify as chiles is actually spices.”

I once watched her season a large pot of some kind of curry. Rather than add seasoning to the pot directly, she spooned some curry into a small bowl and seasoned that, adding the different proportions of each aromatic and spice until it was perfect. Then she proceeded to add the proportional amount to the full batch; it was brilliant, and it showed not just her instinct for flavor but also her practicality and professionalism.

“When we travel, in the States or back to London, we miss our spices,” she told me. “Day 1, day 2, day 3, we’re okay. But by day 4, it’s like a craving. Like when Ajay’s visiting London, he’ll call me a few days before he comes home, and I’ll ask him, ‘What do you want to eat when you land?’ And it’s always the spicy food…the khichdi curry and the onions in peanut sauce…you really do miss it.”

I remember one of the first times I ate biryani, a lavishly spiced rice pilaf, at London Sizzler, and chomped down on a whole cardamom pod. It was like a booby trap, and it exploded with an intense flavor that took over my whole system. Later, I told Auntie about it, and she laughed at me. “You should be paying attention to what you’re eating,” she said.

Once I asked Auntie if she missed London. “The first year I was here, I hated it,” she told me. “I couldn’t stand the humidity. I would drive to work, stay inside all day, and drive home. I felt like a prisoner who couldn’t go outside. But now, I love it. I wouldn’t go anywhere else. If I go back to London to visit, I cry. I cry the night before I leave, and once I’m there, I start packing to come home.” I asked her why she loves Houston. She told me that she realized she loved it after going back to England for the first time after getting her green card. “I was so bored. There’s never any sun there, and I think it makes people a little miserable. It made me realize that in Houston, yes, it’s hot, but it’s good for you. You have a positive attitude here. It’s home. I have everything I want here.”

Auntie Sue, Chris, and Ajay Patel

MASALA BHINDI

SERVES 4

You could read pages upon pages about spices and their impact on a dish, or how much better it is to grind whole spices yourself. You could read about the history of certain spices, or which spices are used most in which cultures. But really, this dish makes a way better argument for how frickin’ awesome and game-changing and mind-opening spices can be, and it does so in less than thirty minutes.

The biggest reason for that, simply put, is that this is a dish where the spices are the main ingredient. They are what you taste most acutely. The okra is just a vessel.

To make the dry masala spice blend that defines this dish, you take some of the most punchy, flavorful spices out there (mustard, fenugreek, cloves, black peppercorn), toast them to awaken their already bold flavors, and then grind them to a coarse, fragrant blend. This is then added in generous quantities to hard-roasted okra, so that every single piece is coated with the stuff. The effect is almost akin to eating a hot chile (maybe why chiles are referred to as “spicy”?)—every taste bud is activated and trying to figure out what is going on. It’s almost disorienting, but it’s definitely delicious.

Masala bhindi (bhindi is the Hindi word for okra) is a fairly common dish in Indian restaurants in America, based on a Northern Indian preparation of okra. Preparations vary, but the basic idea is that bite-size pieces of okra are fried and then tossed with a spice blend, jalapeños, and cilantro. I love this dish for its simplicity and a flavor that makes you pay attention and notice the spices.

1 pound okra, tips and tails trimmed, cut into 1-inch pieces

½ cup vegetable oil

4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

2 jalapeños, stemmed and thinly sliced

3 tablespoons Dry Masala Spice Mix (recipe follows)

1 bunch cilantro, leaves and stems chopped

2 limes, halved

Kosher salt

1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil.

2. In a large bowl, toss the okra with ¼ cup of the oil. Spread out the okra in a single layer on the prepared baking sheet and roast for 6 to 8 minutes or until the outsides will have begun to caramelize and char in spots.

3. While the okra is in the oven, heat the remaining ¼ cup oil in a large skillet over high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the garlic and jalapeños and cook, stirring, until the jalapeños are softened.

4. When the okra is ready, scrape it into the skillet, leaving any excess oil behind on the baking sheet, and season the mixture with the masala spice blend. Stir well to combine and cook for another 1 to 2 minutes to let the flavors meld. Add the chopped cilantro and squeeze the lime over the vegetables. Season with salt to taste and serve immediately.

DRY MASALA SPICE MIX

The dry version of Auntie’s Masala (this page), this spice blend is a fixture in my kitchen. Toss it with roasted vegetables or popcorn, or use it as a dry rub on meat.

MAKES ¼ CUP

8 whole cloves

2 dried árbol chiles

1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns

1 tablespoon fennel seeds

1 teaspoon yellow mustard seeds

1 teaspoon fenugreek

2 teaspoons ground turmeric

In a skillet, combine the cloves, chiles, peppercorns, fennel seeds, mustard seeds, and fenugreek. Toast over medium-high heat, shaking the pan, until the spices start to smoke and release their aroma. Remove the pan from the heat and mix in the turmeric. Place it all in a spice grinder and pulse until it becomes a powder. Store in a lidded container in a cool, dry place; the masala will keep for about 1 month before the flavors start to diminish.

POACHED SHRIMP

WITH TAMARIND COCKTAIL SAUCE

SERVES 8 TO 10

This cocktail sauce channels the flavors of a Mexican torta shop: cumin, chile powder, oregano, and the secret ingredient, tamarind paste. This acidic fruit paste is a common ingredient in Latin, Indian, and Southeast Asian cooking and should get more love here in the States. I think it works brilliantly alongside tomatoes, which have a sweetness to counterbalance the tamarind’s pucker.

FOR THE SHRIMP

1 cup chopped celery

1 cup chopped yellow onion

2 lemons, cut in half

2 dried árbol chiles

2 tablespoons kosher salt

1¼ to 2 tablespoons whole black peppercorns

3 pounds 16/20 count shrimp, peeled and deveined

FOR THE COCKTAIL SAUCE

2 tablespoons tamarind paste (see Note)

1 garlic clove

¼ cup ketchup

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1 tablespoon dark ancho or chipotle chile powder

1½ teaspoons prepared horseradish

1 teaspoon chopped fresh chives

1 teaspoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1 teaspoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon dried Mexican oregano

¼ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

Dash of Tabasco

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Poach the shrimp: Pour 1 gallon water into a large stockpot and add the celery, onion, lemon halves, chiles, salt, and peppercorns. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook for 45 minutes. Strain the liquid, discarding the solids, and return to the pot (you should have 2 quarts left, give or take; if you reduce it too far and need to add a bit more water, that’s fine). Bring the seasoned water to a simmer and add the shrimp. Stir and carefully watch the shrimp, scooping them out with a slotted spoon or skimmer as they turn pink and opaque, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet in a single layer. Refrigerate immediately until well chilled, about 1 hour.

2. Make the cocktail sauce: In a medium saucepan, combine the tamarind paste, garlic, and 2 cups water and bring to a boil. Continue boiling until reduced by half, about 15 minutes. Strain the tamarind liquid through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl and let cool completely. In a separate bowl, combine the ketchup, lemon juice, chile powder, horseradish, chives, parsley, cumin, oregano, Worcestershire, and Tabasco and whisk together. Once the tamarind liquid has cooled, add it to the sauce and season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve cold with the shrimp.

NOTE: When shopping for tamarind you might see “pulp” as an offering instead of “paste.” The two are more or less the same, the only difference being that pulp has not been strained of seeds and bits of shell, while paste is smooth. In this recipe, the two can be used interchangeably, since the tamarind liquid is strained (which would catch any seeds or shells from the pulp). That said, if it’s a particularly seedy batch, you may have to add a little more tamarind pulp to bring up the tamarind flavor.

GARAM MASALA SMOKED FISH DIP

SERVES 6 TO 8

Smoked fish salad is a fairly common find along the Gulf coast, and the flavor is a reliable mix of mustard, horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, and paprika. If you’re a serious renegade, maybe some cayenne or Old Bay makes an appearance.

But if you swap out these familiar seasonings for unexpected spices, you achieve an entirely different flavor profile. Trade Old Bay for garam masala, the popular Indian spice blend, and this becomes a smoked fish dip unlike any you’ve tried before. The use of spices is one of the easiest ways to give a recipe a twist and begin branching out from the realm of instructions to the wide world of improvisation.

I’m not suggesting that any spice can be traded out for something entirely different and still achieve a tasty result. So when is the right time to experiment? Instead of your typical BBQ rub, consider the Dry Masala Spice Mix (this page) or a combination of the typical “baking spices” on this page. Then look for recipes that combine smoke, salt, and some kind of creamy element like mayo or yogurt (aka the key attributes of smoked fish dip). Start small. Never assume that swapping out a seasoning will be a one-to-one ratio. Taste, adjust, taste, adjust, and pretty soon your dish will be somewhere you never thought it could go—in a great way!

3 tablespoons Auntie’s Masala (this page)

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

¼ teaspoon ground cardamom

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ cup mayonnaise

½ cup plain yogurt

¼ cup minced white onion

Juice of 1 lime

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 pound smoked white fish, flaked

1 English cucumber, thinly sliced

6 to 8 toasted bread slices

Quick-pickled red onions (see this page), for garnish

Cherry tomatoes, halved, for garnish

Cilantro leaves, for garnish

1. In a medium bowl, combine the masala, coriander, pepper, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, mayo, and yogurt until completely combined. Fold in the onion, lime juice, and olive oil, then the white fish. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

2. To serve, pile some of the cucumber slices onto each slice of toast. Spoon the fish salad on top of the cucumber and garnish with a bit of pickled red onions, cherry tomato halves, and cilantro leaves.

NEW ORLEANS BBQ CRABS

SERVES 2 TO 4

New Orleans is ground zero for “Creole cuisine,” a term used to describe the melding of the cultural influences that formed Louisiana from colonial times onward—Native, African, French, Italian, Spanish, and later, Anglo-American. The food scholar Jessica B. Harris sees the term Creole as encompassing a much larger swath of territory: the entire southern Atlantic rim and beyond, with research to suggest that the word Creole may actually be of African origin. Though her geography is broader, the fundamental similarity in her definition is that Creole is about the intermingling of cultures.

To me “Creole” is a fitting way to describe the food scene in Houston, too. Like Harris, I see the term as an evolving descriptor, one that can meet the changing demographics of our city. But when we’re talking about New Orleans, “Creole” is more fixed—it refers to a certain set of historical influences, flavors, and traditions.

Creole seasoning is a pretty established ingredient, usually a mix of garlic and onion powder, paprika, black pepper, cayenne, and thyme. It’s a distinctive flavor that I love deeply. And it informs the flavor profile of this dish, as well as its inspiration, BBQ shrimp. It’s a classic New Orleans dish that, according to lore, was invented in 1953 at a restaurant called Pascal’s Manale. Despite the dish’s name, the shrimp is not actually barbecued—in fact, there’s no grilling involved at all. Rather, the name supposedly references the reddish color of the sauce (thanks to the abundance of paprika in Creole seasoning). New Orleans is a city that proves that the intermixing of cuisines and influences is nothing new. We’re just continuing to do what’s been done since humans have traveled this earth.

FOR THE SAUCE BASE

8 lemons, peeled and halved

4 cups shrimp stock

1 cup Worcestershire sauce

½ cup garlic cloves

¼ cup whole black peppercorns

2 tablespoons Creole seasoning (such as Tony Chachere or Zatarain’s)

FOR THE CRABS

4 (8-ounce) live blue crabs

¼ cup vegetable oil

1 large white onion, thinly sliced

¼ cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Thinly sliced scallions, for garnish

Toasted baguette slices, for serving

1. Make the sauce base: In a medium saucepan, combine the lemons, shrimp stock, Worcestershire, garlic cloves, peppercorns, and Creole seasoning and bring to a simmer over high heat. Cook until the liquid reduces by half, about 20 minutes. Strain, discarding the solids, and reserve. The sauce base will keep in a covered container in the refrigerator for a week (see Note).

2. Make the crabs: Bring a large pot of water to a boil over medium-high heat. Place the crabs in the boiling water and cook for 1 minute, or until they turn bright orange (this will kill them as quickly and as humanely as possible). Drain the crabs and let cool. When cool enough to handle, pull off the main shell and remove the gills.

3. In a large saucepan, heat the oil over high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the onion and cook, stirring, until it begins to take on color in spots, about 3 minutes. Add the crabs and 2 cups of the sauce base and bring to a hard simmer. Add the cream and butter and stir to incorporate. Transfer to a serving platter, garnish with scallions, and serve with toasted baguette slices.

NOTE: Leftover sauce base would be great as a finishing sauce for a grilled or roasted white fish; heat it up with a small nub of butter and spoon it over the top of your fish. I’d also happily pour it over a bowl of rice or grits along with some sautéed shrimp.

LAMBURGER HELPER

SERVES 8

We opened Underbelly with the hope that dishes that traditionally might not exist next to each other, inspired by cuisines from all over our city, would end up on the same table. But Korean dumplings and Vietnamese chả cá weren’t yet familiar foods for many of our diners. So I put this dish on the menu. Basically, it’s a cheesy baked pasta dish with ground lamb and lots of spices, meant to be a bridge that could carry our diners to some of the more unfamiliar (to them) dishes on the menu.

Well, our plan sort of backfired: this dish became crazy popular in its own right. It became the dish that journalists wanted photos of, the dish that we’d always run out of by the end of the night. While it was thrilling that our food was getting such a positive reception, I didn’t want the familiar to eclipse the rest of the dishes, which were the heart of the project. So I took it off the menu…but you should feel free to have it at home!

FOR THE SAUCE

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 tablespoon minced garlic (about 3 cloves)

¼ cup small-diced white onion

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups heavy cream

3 tablespoons sambal oelek

1 tablespoon Crystal hot sauce

2½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE PASTA

1 pound fusilli pasta

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1 pound ground lamb

½ cup diced white onion

1 tablespoon minced garlic (about 3 cloves)

1 tablespoon ancho chile powder

2 teaspoons ground cumin

1 teaspoon crushed red pepper

1 teaspoon dried oregano

¼ cup diced tomato

1 cup dry white wine

1½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F.

2. Make the cheese sauce: In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and onion and sprinkle the flour over. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 3 minutes, or until the onion and garlic smell fragrant and the flour evenly coats the vegetables. Slowly whisk in the heavy cream and bring to a simmer. Add the sambal and hot sauce and gently simmer for 5 minutes. Slowly whisk in the cheese, then season to taste with salt and pepper. Set aside.

3. Make the pasta: Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil over high heat and add 3 tablespoons salt. Add the pasta and cook until just under al dente, about 9 minutes, or a few minutes under what the package directions tell you. Drain the pasta and run it under cold water to stop the cooking process.

4. Meanwhile, in a large sauté pan, heat the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the lamb, spread it out to cover the pan, and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned, about 6 minutes. Stir in the onion and garlic and continue cooking for 2 minutes, until slightly softened. Add the chile powder, cumin, crushed red pepper, and oregano and cook for 3 minutes, until very aromatic. Add the tomato and wine and let simmer, stirring frequently so nothing sticks, until the liquid has almost evaporated, about 10 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat.

5. Toss the pasta and lamb mixture together in a large bowl. Fold in the cheese sauce and 1 cup of the cheddar. Pour the mixture into a 13 × 9-inch casserole dish or a 12-inch cast-iron skillet and top with the remaining ½ cup cheddar and the cherry tomatoes. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until bubbly and golden brown. Let cool for 5 to 10 minutes before serving big spoonfuls to all your friends.

SHAWARMA MEATBALLS

WITH FIELD PEA HUMMUS

SERVES 6

If you’re from the South, you know the “meat and three.” It’s a cherished form of restaurant that usually serves home-style food that is traditional to the American South—think fried chicken, collards, mac and cheese, sugar-cured ham, creamed corn, and the like, usually on a buffet line. You order your meat and get three sides.

One of my favorite Houston meat-and-threes—albeit a nontraditional one—is called Aladdin. There, you’ll find four types of hummus, a rich house tzatziki, saffron rice, pomegranate eggplant, chicken skewers, shawarma, and braised lamb shanks in a buffet with a colorful display of vegetable sides and salads.

The proprietors of Aladdin don’t use the term “meat and three” to describe their Lebanese restaurant, but an ingrained understanding of the format has made it easy for all kinds of patrons to recognize what they do. Plus, the lines blur even further when dishes like fried okra and mashed potato balls hit the hot line, right next to grape leaves and fattoush. And yes, you can order a combo plate of one meat and three sides.

This dish —a combo plate of its own, really, is my tribute to Aladdin and the commingling of Southern and international ideas that helps us understand and appreciate the food that surrounds us.

FOR THE HUMMUS

3 cups fresh butter beans (or baby lima beans)

½ cup tahini

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

Juice of 2 lemons

3 garlic cloves

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

¼ teaspoon sugar

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE MEATBALLS

2 pounds ground chuck

6 garlic cloves, minced

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

1¼ to 2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon ground allspice

1 teaspoon ground cloves

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon grated nutmeg

1 teaspoon ground cardamom

1 teaspoon dark chile powder, such as ancho

1 teaspoon dried oregano

6 large eggs, lightly beaten

½ cup breadcrumbs

FOR THE TZATZIKI

½ cup Greek-style yogurt

1 English cucumber, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced crosswise

¼ cup thinly sliced red onion

1 garlic clove, minced

1 tablespoon fresh lime juice

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro, plus a few leaves to garnish

1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint, plus a few leaves to garnish

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Make the hummus: Put the butter beans in a stockpot and cover with 6 cups water. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat to medium and simmer until the beans have a nice, soft texture. Strain the beans, reserving both the beans and the liquid.

2. In a food processor, puree the beans, tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, paprika, and sugar. With the motor running, add some of the bean cooking liquid until a very smooth puree forms—you will not need all the liquid. Season to taste with salt and pepper and set aside at room temperature while you finish the dish.

3. Make the meatballs: Preheat the oven to 400°F.

4. In a large bowl, combine the beef, garlic, cornstarch, pepper, salt, allspice, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, chile powder, oregano, eggs, and breadcrumbs and mix with your hands just until the ingredients come together and are evenly dispersed—you don’t want to mix too much or the meatballs will get tough. Form the meat mixture into balls the size of golf balls and place on a rimmed baking sheet, about 1 inch apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until golden brown and cooked through (you can break one open to test).

5. While the meatballs bake, make the tzatziki: In a medium bowl, combine the yogurt, cucumber, onion, garlic, lime juice, olive oil, and chopped cilantro and mint. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

6. To serve, spread the hummus on a platter and spoon the meatballs on top. Garnish with dollops of tzatziki and additional cilantro and mint leaves.

Phở Sure, You Can Love Pumpkin Spice

When I was growing up, the combination of spices like cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves always meant one thing: dessert.

For much of the stereotypical American culinary repertoire, these spices are so relegated to baking that you can buy them as a blend under the blanket term “baking spice.” And in the last few years, this spice combination has been further imprisoned by the name “pumpkin spice.”

However you feel about pumpkin spice lattes or pumpkin spice–infused vodka, try not to hold it against the actual spices. And what’s more, think of these spices the way many other cultures do: as instrumental tools for seasoning both sweet and savory dishes, and as one of the most important and history-altering commodities since humans first began trading.

The first time I tasted “sweet” spices in a savory application was probably my first bowl of phở, shortly after I moved to Houston. Trying phở felt like part of the process of assimilation to the city, akin to finding your favorite slice shop or bagel place in New York. So within a few weeks of starting my job at Brennan’s, one of my fellow cooks grabbed me and took me out for phở. When I took that first sip, none of the flavors made sense to me—I just couldn’t place them. But I still loved it. It was spicy, sour, caramelized, and so warm and rich thanks to these hard-to-pinpoint flavors.

But pretty quickly, I began to detect the same flavors elsewhere in my Houston eating experiences: in the moles at Mexican restaurants, in the kofta at my favorite Lebanese place, all over the vindaloos and curries that I’d order at Indian restaurants.

What was I tasting? Spices like cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, star anise, nutmeg, and black pepper. I realized, by eating around Houston, that the tendency to reserve these spices for sweet applications is an anomaly. In many cuisines from all over the world, these spices are embraced as the pillars of flavorful, rich food.

I began to wonder why some cuisines are with the sweet spices program and some are not. There are some pretty fascinating studies that attempt to shed light on this question. It turns out that on a molecular level, most of the world’s cuisines follow a principle of layering many spices and aromatics with flavor molecules that don’t overlap; the distinctive qualities of these cuisines are achieved by contrasting these flavor molecules. However, much of European cuisine operates on the opposite principle: dishes tend to combine ingredients with very similar flavor molecules and compounds, so it’s more about amplifying the flavors that are there.

What’s interesting is that European food, at one time, was like everywhere else, defined by contrasting flavors. In fact, during the Middle Ages, spices were extremely precious, and thus having spice-rich food was a sign of wealth and class. Europe’s obsession with spices was one of the key factors in expansion and colonization—control of the spice trade was massively valuable.

But as colonization of major spice-producing countries made spices more available, cooking with them no longer held the prestige that it once did. Instead, Europeans turned the focus inward, with a cooking philosophy that began in France and emphasized that a dish should be flavored to make an ingredient taste more like itself. This was especially true for sauces, which shifted from flavorful vegetable- and spice-based purees to the distillation of meat flavor in the form of a stock. Meat-based gravies doubled down on the meaty flavor of proteins that typically starred on the plate.

While I’ll never snub a beautiful meat gravy, and have all the respect in the world for classic French cuisine, I think there’s value (and much delicious opportunity) in the cooking philosophy that embraces contrast. To me, every dish is about a balance of contrasting flavors that hit all the different tastes: sour, bitter, sweet, salty, rich.

So, what’s the moral here? That when it comes to pumpkin pie spices, put them to use in savory dishes. If you need a place to start, try Garam Masala Smoked Fish Dip (this page) or Shawarma Meatballs (this page). Still need convincing? Do like I did: go out for a bowl of phở.

CAST IRON–SEARED LAMB VINDALOO

SERVES 4

I’m so grateful to all the people who have taught and inspired me over the years. And I also feel that, as a white guy who’s gotten recognition for my food, it’s my duty to give credit to the cooks who’ve schooled me, who happen to be mostly people of color and immigrants and the kind of people who do their thing without much notice from the media.

One way to do that is to hold special dinners at our restaurants where we introduce our guests to the chefs and restaurateurs who inspire me. And at one of those dinners, we invited Ajay Patel and his mom, “Auntie” Sue Patel, of the Indian restaurant London Sizzler.

I was preparing lamb vindaloo and somewhat nervously asked Auntie Sue to taste it before we served it to the guests. She ate a spoonful, made a face, and asked us to bring her all of our spices. All of them. She then proceeded to dump spices into the pot, while I could only stand there with my mouth wide open. I was sure she’d seasoned it past the point of no return, and we’d have to come up with something else on the fly to serve the dining room full of guests.

“Why are you Americans so afraid of flavor?” she asked me, lifting a spoonful of her doctored vindaloo to my lips.

It was incredible. Yes, it was spice-heavy, but every spice balanced out the others, and I realized that, when working with spices, you shouldn’t be timid, but you also need to play around enough to get a sense of how they work with one another, so one flavor doesn’t overwhelm.

And that little chastising served me right, I guess, for trying to impress my mentors with their own specialties. Here’s my version of Auntie’s version of my vindaloo. And yes, it’s well spiced. Thank you, Auntie.

¼ cup vegetable oil

2 large yellow onions, sliced

2 pounds boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 1-inch chunks

2 tablespoons Dry Masala Spice Mix (this page)

5 tablespoons Auntie’s Masala (this page)

1 cup diced tomato

1 cup chicken, lamb, or beef stock

¼ cup apple cider vinegar

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 cup shredded cabbage, for garnish

Cilantro sprigs, for garnish

4 naan, for serving

1. In a cast-iron skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring frequently, until dark and caramelized, about 30 minutes. Transfer the onions to a plate and set aside. Add the lamb and the dry masala seasoning to the pan and sear until the lamb is evenly browned on all sides, 10 to 12 minutes. (Sear the lamb chunks in batches if necessary to keep them comfortable in one layer.)

2. Transfer the lamb to a stockpot or Dutch oven. Add the Auntie’s masala mix, tomato, stock, vinegar, and caramelized onions. Bring the mixture to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 45 minutes—the lamb should be tender and cooked through and the stock reduced to a thick sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

3. Top the vindaloo with shredded cabbage and cilantro and serve with naan.

JAPANESE CURRY

WITH SCRAMBLED EGGS AND RICE

SERVES 4

Kare raisu, or curry rice, is one of the most popular comfort food dishes in Japan—it’s found everywhere from cafeteria school lunches to navy vessels. The dish usually consists of a bed of chewy short-grain rice with a velvety, gravy-like brown sauce, vegetables (usually potatoes and carrots), and sometimes meat, like beef or fried pork cutlets.

My first time trying it was at my very first restaurant job, at a sushi restaurant. We weren’t allowed to eat the fish for staff meal—too expensive. So instead I subsisted on bowls of sushi rice topped with eggs (in a rotating preparation, depending on how set up your station was) and Japanese curry. It became one of my favorite versions of comfort food, even though I had little context for its place in Japanese culture except for its enduring popularity among my Japanese coworkers.

Then I learned that this commonplace dish in Japan is actually an immigrant import twice removed. Curry first came to Japan via the British, a souvenir that they had pocketed from their colony in India. But, in the hands of the British, the dish didn’t closely resemble the fiery, spice-rich stews of the subcontinent, and in Japan, the dish went further into warm, gravy-like territory.

These days, Japanese curry is usually made from a prepackaged sauce base (I prefer a brand called S&B Golden Curry). This convenience ingredient is one of my favorite pantry staples, and something that I love to use to season vegetables (like the green beans on this page) or just to doctor up a bowl of rice with a few aromatics, vegetables, and eggs—a quick meal that’s never gotten old for me.

4 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced

½ cup small-diced carrot

1 tablespoon thinly sliced garlic (about 3 cloves)

2 quarts chicken stock

1 (8.4-ounce) package S&B Golden Curry Sauce mix (the “hot” variety is my favorite)

2 tablespoons sambal oelek (optional)

1 tablespoon fresh lime juice

½ cup fresh or frozen (thawed) green peas

6 large eggs

¼ cup whole milk

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 cups steamed short-grain rice, warm

Quick-pickled radishes (use the directions and brine on this page), for garnish

Thinly sliced scallion, for garnish

1. In a large Dutch oven, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the onion, carrot, and garlic and cook for 5 minutes, until the vegetables begin to soften. Add the stock and bring to a simmer. Slowly whisk in the curry paste. Add the sambal (if using) and lime juice. The curry will start to thicken as it simmers. Stir in the peas and keep warm.

2. In a bowl, whisk together the eggs and milk. In a medium skillet, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the eggs and cook, using a spatula to occasionally stir and fold the eggs over themselves as they begin to set and form large, soft egg pillows. (We aren’t making soft scrambled eggs here; these should have big curds.) Cook to your desired doneness, remove from the heat, and season with salt and pepper to taste.

3. Scoop some of the rice into each bowl. Ladle a spoonful of the curry over the top and then some of the eggs. Garnish with pickled radishes and scallion and serve.

BEET PANNA COTTA

SERVES 6

How sweet should dessert be? How savory? This dessert, while undeniably sweet, has far more savory, earthy components to it than what you might be used to. I’m not forcing you to eat your vegetables for dessert (everyone’s childhood nightmare); it’s just that beets add a unique dimension to the flavor of this pudding, with enough earthy heft and natural sugar to hold up the other strong ingredients. The result is not subtle, but it is absolutely delicious.

I see this dish as part of an evolution for me regarding what tastes “balanced” in cooking. The more I learn about different ways of seasoning through the foods of different cultures, the more my idea of how to achieve that perfect balance of sweet-salty-bitter-rich evolves. Sometimes that means adding brown sugar to my fish sauce to douse a steak (this page) as a Vietnamese cook might; sometimes that means adding dill and mustard seeds to a panna cotta. This dish is less about a direct cultural influence—it’s not inspired by any particular cuisine, exactly—but the pairing of these ingredients in a sweet application is a direct result of my exposure to some of the many cultural cooking practices that exist in Houston.

FOR THE PICKLED MUSTARD SEEDS

½ cup yellow mustard seeds

1 bay leaf

1 cinnamon stick

¼ cup sugar

¼ cup honey

½ cup hot water

½ cup white wine vinegar

¼ cup apple cider vinegar

FOR THE PANNA COTTA

2 medium red beets, greens removed

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

3 gelatin sheets or 1 tablespoon powdered gelatin

1½ cups heavy cream

½ cup mascarpone cheese

¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar

1 star anise pod

2 cinnamon sticks

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE DILL CRÈME FRAÎCHE

1 cup crème fraîche

5 dill sprigs, finely chopped

1. Make the pickled mustard seeds: Put the mustard seeds, bay leaf, and cinnamon stick in a 2-cup or larger container with a lid. In a small bowl, stir together the sugar, honey, and hot water until the sugar and honey dissolve. Add the vinegars. Pour the warm mixture over the seeds and stir. Cover and let sit at room temperature overnight. Stir the seeds the next day, then store in the refrigerator until ready to serve. (You won’t use all the pickled mustard seeds for this recipe, but they will keep for 2 weeks and can also be used as a garnish for oysters or mixed into a vinaigrette.)

2. Make the panna cotta: Preheat the oven to 400°F. Put the beets in a bowl and coat with the oil. Wrap each beet in aluminum foil and place on a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until a knife can be inserted into the beet without resistance, about 45 minutes. Let the beets cool slightly.

3. When cool enough to handle, peel the beets (you should be able to just rub off the skins with a paper towel). Roughly chop the beets and transfer to a food processor. Add ¼ cup water and puree until smooth; you may need to add more water by the tablespoon to achieve this consistency.

4. Bloom the gelatin by placing the sheets in a bowl and covering with cold water. (Or, if using powder, sprinkle the granules into a bowl of cold water—go by the quantity called for on the package instructions.) Let soak for 5 to 10 minutes, then drain the sheets and set aside. (If using powdered gelatin, set the dissolved mixture aside.)

5. In a medium saucepan, combine the beet puree, cream, mascarpone, sugar, star anise, cinnamon sticks, a pinch of sugar, and a few cranks of the peppermill. Heat over medium-low heat until the mixture is hot but not boiling, stirring constantly to avoid burning.

6. Remove the mixture from the heat, add the gelatin sheets (or the dissolved powdered gelatin mixture), and stir until the gelatin has completely melted. Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a measuring cup with a pour spout, discard the solids, then divide the mixture between six 4-ounce ramekins. Transfer to the refrigerator and chill completely, uncovered, for at least 6 hours but preferably overnight.

7. When you’re ready to serve, make the dill crème fraîche: Whisk the crème fraîche to lighten it, then whisk in the chopped dill. Spoon a dollop of crème fraîche on top of each panna cotta (in the ramekin) and garnish with ¼ teaspoon pickled mustard seeds.