CHAPTER 6

CORN

Of all the ingredients in this book, I have the longest relationship with corn. I was born in Nebraska, so I’m a corn husker by birthright.

Every single week in the summer, my mom would go to a nearby farm and buy sweet corn, and I grew up shucking it, eating it, and freezing it for winter. Corn, either creamed or on the cob, was basically a year-round staple at my family’s dinner table.

By the time I went to culinary school, I felt fairly confident in my understanding of corn as an ingredient. I knew how it was grown, and how to steam it or boil it or fry it or grill it. But then I moved to Houston and was introduced to entirely different forms of corn than the versions I’d grown up with: grits, hominy, sour corn, bourbon, and, maybe most important, masa.

Masa, the dough made from corn that’s been soaked with mineral lime—a process called nixtamalization—was everywhere: formed into tortillas, wrapped into corn husks and steamed for tamales, patted into thick rounds and griddled for sopes, and many more uses. While the tortillas in my life had all been either flour or hard taco shells out of an Ortega box, when I got to Houston I came across real masa constantly, initially through the meals that my fellow cooks, many of them Mexican American, would make at work for themselves. They shared their meals and knowledge with me, and then I started going out to more restaurants in the area, and masa became familiar enough to me that I started to experiment with cooking it myself.

It turns out that I had a lot to learn about corn after all. I may have had a handle on fresh corn, but all these dried forms of corn—which really form the majority of corn eaten by humans—were more or less unknown to me. When I think about what my cooking (or my life, for that matter) would have been like if I had been closed off to learning more about corn, if I had decided that my personal experience and family history with this ingredient was the best and the only way to cook it, I feel a sadness. Not just because I would have missed out on so many incredible eating experiences and opportunities to cook dishes that I’m proud of. But also because it would have closed me off to getting to know some of the most impactful people in my life, like Connie Rivera, who first taught me the process of making masa, and has worked with me for over twenty years. Plus, it’s been a blast to introduce my mom—my original cooking mentor—to new ways to appreciate corn when she comes to our restaurants.

This is the opportunity we have with food. Corn, more than any other ingredient in this book, is something that I thought I knew all about. But by being open and seeking out an understanding about how other people use this ingredient, my mind was blown, and I was humbled by how much I had to learn. I remember the first time I had a bowl of really good grits—not instant, the stuff I grew up on, but stone-ground Anson Mills grits that someone had stood over and stirred methodically for nearly an hour, until they were creamy and thick and undeniably corny. It was the first time I could connect the flavor of this dish to the ingredient it came from. I was standing in the kitchen at Brennan’s, watching everyone else go about their business, feeling a grit-induced revelation in my mind.

This chapter focuses on those moments: not on the fresh corn that dominated my childhood, but on the “pantry” versions of corn that served as mind-opening lessons to me later on. (With one exception: I’ve just got to share how my mom makes corn on the cob.) May they serve as reminders to always be learning.

KNOWING YOUR CORN PRODUCTS

In Texas, corn is vital. Its importance is underlined twice: first, by its role in Mexican culture—it’s widely believed that corn was first domesticated in Mexico—and second, by its role in Southern culture. Grits, of course, but also cornbread, hushpuppies, and the bourbon we sip. (The Southern Foodways Alliance, a nonprofit that documents the ever-evolving food traditions of the South and one of the most important organizations in my life, is an incredible source of learning and understanding about the South. Check out the chef and writer Stephen Satterfield’s excellent talk about the origins of corn on southernfoodways.org—go, watch.)

Corn is in everything…and I mean everything. In good ways and in some maybe not-so-good ways (the disposable cups from your favorite takeout spot, the ketchup or BBQ sauce sitting in your fridge).

That ubiquity speaks volumes. Corn is a pretty good case study of human ingenuity. It starts with nixtamalization. (How the heck, I’ve wondered frequently, did the Maya figure out that soaking corn kernels in an alkaline solution would make them digestible, nutritious, and delicious?) And that’s just the tip of the tamale; we’ve figured out a billion other things to do with corn, shifting its shape into alcohol and sugar and plastic and batteries. But my favorite thing to do with corn is still to cook it.

Cornmeal, grits, polenta, corn flour, and cornstarch

Cornmeal is made from grinding the dried kernels of white or yellow field corn (that is, not sweet corn). It’s ground either by steel rollers, which makes for more shelf-stable, uniform-looking cornmeal, or by stone, which leads to coarser meal that is more perishable, because it leaves the germ of the corn—which has a lot of flavor—intact. Grits, polenta, and corn flour are technically all forms of cornmeal. But you don’t necessarily want to use them in a recipe that calls for “cornmeal” (confusing, I know). Cornmeal is both an umbrella term to describe ground dried corn and a specific ingredient. Most of the distinctions have to do with the coarseness of the grind.

Here’s a little cheat sheet to help you as you shop:

CORNMEAL // This rather large category refers to dried, ground corn. It comes in coarse-ground, medium-ground, and fine-ground options, and in white and yellow varieties.

Most Southern cooks I know always have a bag of cornmeal in their pantries to make cornbread, and I’m no exception. There’s nothing better than a square of cornbread with a pat of melting butter soaking into it. I like a little bit more texture to my cornbread, so I usually use medium- or coarse-ground cornmeal.

Cornmeal is also a classic dredge for frying things like okra, fish, even chicken. The texture of a coarser cornmeal helps elevate the crunch factor. I usually stick with medium-ground cornmeal, though, especially for more delicate ingredients that cook quickly; coarse-ground can turn out more gritty than crunchy in these cases, which isn’t a texture I enjoy.

CORN FLOUR // The only difference between corn flour and cornmeal is that corn flour is very finely ground, to the point of resembling wheat flour. It has gained more mainstream popularity in recent years as a staple of gluten-free baking. Its fineness also makes a great dredge base for frying, as in the Gobi Manchurian (this page), because it can adhere evenly to the surface of the protein or vegetable.

Don’t be afraid to use a mix of corn flour and coarse- or medium-ground cornmeal to achieve your ideal texture for dredging, or for dishes like cornbread or corn cakes. Using a greater amount of corn flour will create a crust, bread, or cake that more closely resembles the smoothness of wheat flour in texture.

It’s best to keep corn flour in the refrigerator or freezer, as it can turn rancid faster than wheat flour.

GRITS // Also a form of cornmeal, grits are even more coarsely ground than coarse-ground cornmeal—so much so that they require longer cooking times or they’ll taste…wait for it…gritty.

The most common way to use grits is to cook them into a porridge. This dish, which can be accessorized to be sweet (with cream and sugar) or savory (with cheese), has sustained generations of Southerners.

It used to be that grits were commonly milled from dent corn, a variety of corn that has a softer hull, low sugar content, and starchy center. But as more small artisan mills and heirloom corn varieties pop up, I’ve seen more variety, including grits milled from flint corn, which is so named for its hardness. Flint corn grits are typically coarser and result in a less smooth porridge than traditional grits.

The grits that opened my eyes to the magic of the dish came from Anson Mills. This South Carolina–based company has completely changed the game for chefs and cooks everywhere by reintroducing heirloom grains and beans that far outstrip the mass-marketed versions in terms of quality. You can purchase these products online at ansonmills.com.

But don’t stop there: It’s a golden age for heirloom ingredients, and corn is no exception. You might have access to a farmer or small mill that’s producing and milling local grits or cornmeal near you. Check out your farmers’ markets or specialty food stores, and pay attention to menus of restaurants that feature locally sourced products.

POLENTA // Polenta is commonly referred to as the Italian version of grits, and it’s true that they are quite similar. Color used to be a common distinction (polenta is often milled from yellow corn, and grits are traditionally milled from white corn), but as more and more varieties of grits have come to market, it’s not uncommon to find yellow grits, too. Typically, polenta is even more coarsely ground than grits and milled from flint corn. Like grits, polenta is typically cooked into a very thick porridge—it can be served in that state (usually topped with some kind of delicious sauce or meat), or it can be chilled and cut into squares or cakes and then pan-fried.

CORNSTARCH // Cornstarch is a powdered pure starch extracted from corn kernels. It’s a common thickening agent in cooking, has a neutral flavor, and thickens almost instantly when heated in liquid. It’s flavorless, so it won’t add any depth or dynamism to your dish the way a roux would. Keep in mind that a little goes a long way; if you’re ever unsure, start with a little and keep adding, since you can always put more in but you can’t take it out.

When adding it to a sauce or soup, you need to first make a slurry: mix the cornstarch with cold water (just enough to make a liquid with the thickness of heavy cream) before stirring or whisking it into your sauce. This is because the starch can thicken so fast on contact with hot liquid that it will clump if you try to sprinkle it into a simmering sauce. Dissolving it first in cold water gives it more time to spread throughout the pot before the heat activates it; this is why recipes always tell you to stir or whisk in the cornstarch slurry quickly. Cornstarch also requires the presence of heat in order to thicken, so bring your mixture to a boil after adding the slurry.

I also use cornstarch to fry; it performs especially well when blended with egg whites to make a batter. I can’t explain the scientific reasons for that, but I have made enough fried crabs and shrimp over the years to promise you that it’s true. (It also works great for fried chicken.)

Nixtamalized Corn

The process of nixtamalization is really what made corn one of the most important crops in the world. It’s a process in which field corn kernels are soaked in an alkaline solution (typically limewater). This soak changes the chemical makeup of the corn, making certain nutrients such as niacin digestible by the human body; put another way, it makes corn more nutritious. It also, crucially, breaks down the plant’s cell walls, making it edible, and releases the corn’s natural pectins (the same stuff that makes jam and jelly set up). Nixtamalization is what allows masa to be formed into a sticky dough, whereas cornmeal will come together like a wet batter or porridge.

HOMINY AND HOMINY GRITS // Hominy is corn kernels that have undergone nixtamalization. In terms of flavor and texture, whole hominy kernels are somewhat similar to canned beans: starchy in texture and flavor, with a hint of chalky acidity. You can use them in soups and stews as you would grains or beans. Hominy grits are dried, coarsely ground hominy corn kernels that you can boil with water, milk, or broth to make a porridge.

MASA AND MASA HARINA // Masa is the dough made from finely ground nixtamalized corn, and masa harina is something of a convenience product—a flour you can mix with water to make masa dough. As making fresh masa requires pretty specialized equipment, most home (and even restaurant) cooks in the United States rely on masa harina to make fresh tortillas, tamales, and things like that.

Masa is the building block of dozens of different dishes in Latin America and is the foundation of the Mexican diet. Similar to pasta in Italy, every different shape that masa takes has its own name. You know tortillas, of course, and probably tamales, but there are also huaraches (flat, thickish oval cakes cooked on a griddle and topped with meats and vegetables) and pupusas (thick, stuffed masa cakes popular in El Salvador), and many more variations and specialties throughout Latin America.

I first made masa under the tutelage of Connie Rivera, one of the cooks I met while working at Brennan’s. Over the nearly two decades that we’ve worked together, I’ve watched Connie strike fear into the heart of many a new line cook. Her external demeanor is fairly rough around the edges when you first meet her (and for a few months, or years, after that)—but if you’re lucky enough to win her trust, she’s the most loyal person you’ll ever know.

When I first got the job at Brennan’s, Connie gave me the cold shoulder as she did everyone else. Things didn’t really change until one incredibly busy brunch shift—we were all getting slammed, but Connie’s station in particular was just crushed. I stepped over and started working the station with her. I didn’t have to say anything; we just sort of slipped into this ballet of cooking, heads down, hearts pumping, until we made it past the push.

After that day, Connie was like a different person with me. She was approachable, and even pulled me over to watch her anytime she was making a dish from her home in El Salvador for staff meal, since she knew how curious I was to learn more about it.

One day she was making pupusas, and she let me help her. This was the first time I’d ever worked with masa directly, mixing the flour with lard and chicken stock until it formed a pliable, endlessly versatile dough.

Since those early days at Brennan’s, Connie has gone on to work with me at several different restaurants. Members of her family, including her husband and son, have also worked with me on and off over the years. In this industry, it can be rare to work with the same people for so long, and I’m grateful that Connie has been such a constant of my career in restaurants. From masa to chiles, she’s taught me many things that continue to shape my cooking to this day.

Masa harina is readily available in Latin markets and in the international aisles of supermarkets, usually labeled with the brand Maseca. Mix masa harina with water or broth and sometimes fat (preferably lard), and you have a dough that will provide you with endless opportunities in the kitchen.

That said, if you have the opportunity to buy fresh masa (that is, masa dough made from freshly ground hominy) from a tortilleria or Mexican market, do it! Like most things, the freshly made version is better than the prepackaged flour.

GOBI MANCHURIAN

SERVES 6

Gobi Manchurian is a menu item in many Indian restaurants, but the ingredients (soy sauce, garlic, ginger, rice vinegar) veer in the direction of Chinese food. It surprised me when I came across it at London Sizzler, my favorite Indian restaurant—and, if I’m being honest, I avoided it. It seemed out of place to me—why would I choose this random Chinese dish when I came to eat biryani and masala bhindi?

Well, I was seriously missing out until Ajay, the restaurant’s owner, decided one night to bring a plate of it to my table, where I was eating with some of our cooks. We ended up asking for five more orders of it, because we couldn’t get enough of the fried cauliflower coated in spiced sweet-and-sour Chinese-but-not-quite sauce.

After this arranged marriage turned into a torrid love affair, I learned more about this dish. It’s insanely popular in India (McDonald’s has served it over there), though it’s not something you’ll ever see in China. Instead, the dish is an Indian interpretation of Chinese ingredients and flavors, much the way that General Tso’s chicken is an American interpretation of those same ingredients and flavors.

And gobi Manchurian is now twice removed from its source material, with Indian immigrants opening restaurants in the United States, where it features prominently on the menu. I’ve taken additional liberties with it by using corn flour to dredge the cauliflower because I love the extra nuttiness of the taste. It’s not something you’d likely see in India, or in China, but it makes plenty of sense in the American South.

FOR THE SAUCE

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

½ medium white onion, large-diced

1 green bell pepper, seeded and roughly chopped

1 jalapeño pepper, minced

2 tablespoons minced garlic (about 6 cloves)

2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 tablespoon sweet soy sauce (kecap manis)

1 tablespoon sambal oelek

1 tablespoon rice vinegar

1 tablespoon sugar

1½ teaspoons garam masala

Finely grated zest of 1 lemon

2 cups chicken stock

2 tablespoons cornstarch

FOR THE CAULIFLOWER

Vegetable oil, for frying

1 cup corn flour (see this page)

¼ cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon dark ancho or chipotle chile powder

1 teaspoon ground cumin

Kosher salt

1 cup cold water

1 head cauliflower, cut into florets

1 teaspoon fennel seed, toasted

1 teaspoon coriander seed, toasted

1 teaspoon whole pink peppercorns

Chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish

1. Make the sauce: In a medium saucepan, heat the oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Add the onion, bell and jalapeño peppers, garlic, and ginger. Cook, stirring, until the vegetables soften, about 5 minutes. Add the soy and sweet soy sauces, sambal, vinegar, sugar, garam masala, lemon zest, and chicken stock. Increase the heat to high and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes, or until the mixture resembles a thin glaze. In a small bowl, whisk the cornstarch with 2 tablespoons water to make a slurry. Whisk it into the sauce and let the mixture boil for 2 minutes to thicken and cook the cornstarch. Keep warm.

2. Make the cauliflower: Fill a large, heavy-bottomed pot with at least 3 inches of oil, making sure to leave a few inches of clearance to the top of the pot. Heat the oil over high heat until it reaches 350°F on a deep-fry thermometer.

3. While the oil is heating, in a large bowl, whisk together the flours, chile powder, cumin, ½ teaspoon salt, and cold water until just combined.

4. Working in batches, add some of the cauliflower florets to the batter, turning them so that they are completely coated. Transfer the florets to the oil and fry, turning occasionally, for about 3 minutes, until they are a deep golden-brown color. Use a slotted spoon or spider to transfer them to a paper towel–lined plate and season lightly with salt. When you’ve fried all the florets, transfer them to a bowl and add a little bit of the sauce, then toss to coat. You want to add only enough sauce to lightly coat the cauliflower (any leftover sauce would taste great spooned over rice with some vegetables, eggs, or leftover meats for an easy lunch).

5. Garnish with toasted fennel and coriander seeds, pink peppercorns, and chopped cilantro and serve hot.

CHOCOLATE CHILE CHAMPURRADO

SERVES 4

Champurrado is not exactly what I’d describe as a dish meant for Houston weather. It’s essentially a warm, sweet beverage, sometimes with chocolate, thick enough to satisfy as a meal.

But that doesn’t stop our sous chef at Hay Merchant, Alberto Rosas, from making a pot of it every couple of weeks, even on days when the humidity feels like it’s at 100 percent. I’ll walk into the kitchen and see all the cooks enjoying mugs of it, and I can’t help but tease them: “The only way you could finish that is to drink it in the walk-in!” But on the rare cold day in Houston, I’ll ladle some into my own mug. The thick, hot drink is like breakfast on the go, with deep roots in Mexico that go back centuries.

The base of the drink is masa, the nixtamalized corn flour that forms the base of tortillas and tamales and is used to thicken warm milk. It speaks to the significance of corn in sustaining humans with nourishment for both body and soul.

2 cups whole milk

½ cup masa harina (see this page)

¼ cup brown sugar

1 teaspoon red pepper flakes

¼ to ½ teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

¼ cup dark chocolate chips

4 cinnamon sticks

In a medium saucepan, whisk 2 cups water, the milk, masa harina, brown sugar, red pepper flakes, salt, and vanilla over medium heat until it comes to a simmer. Continue to cook over low heat for 8 to 10 minutes, until well thickened. Slowly whisk in the chocolate chips, until the chocolate is completely melted. Pour into 4 mugs, add a cinnamon stick to each, and serve hot.

NACHHOOOOOOS!!!!!

SERVES 1 TO 4, DEPENDING ON HOW YOU LIKE TO PARTY

I’m about to drop some fighting words down on you. Number 1: Nachos are the best use of tortilla chips. And tortilla chips are among my favorite corn-based ingredients.

Number 2: Pile or individual? Tell me how you build your nachos and I’ll tell you who you are as a person. Personally, I’m a pile person. And I’ll say right now that if you build your nachos on individual chips, you probably don’t know how to party and prefer to be by yourself.

With that out of the way, I think there are two best practices for nacho pile excellence. First: Make sure you have equal distribution of toppings—nobody wants a naked chip in their pile (this is a party after all). You’ve got to top some of the chips, then cover them with more chips and top them, too. Second: Make sure each component is delicious and well seasoned. This is the reasoning behind lightly pickling the black beans before assembly—it knocks off that bland “canned” taste and gives the beans a perky acidity that balances out that cheese. Additionally, I like to use both shredded cheese and the melted cheese sauce we Texans call queso (even though, yes, queso is just Spanish for “cheese”). I spike my queso with sambal oelek (it adds heat and a touch of acidity to the otherwise blanketing richness) and use it to provide maximum chip coverage, while shredded cheddar adds texture, melting to the point of even getting a little crispy in spots.

FOR THE MEAT

1 pound ground beef

1 tablespoon dark chile powder, such as ancho

1½ teaspoons ground cumin

½ to 1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon crushed red pepper

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

¼ teaspoon garlic powder

¼ teaspoon onion powder

FOR THE CHEESE 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 NACHOS

1 (13-ounce) bag tortilla chips

1½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

½ cup pickled sliced jalapeños

2 cups shredded green cabbage

¼ cup pickled black beans (see this page)

1 cup sour cream

1 cup diced tomato

1. Make the beef: In a large skillet, cook the beef over medium-high heat, breaking it up with a spoon, until crumbled and browned throughout, about 8 minutes. Stir in the chile powder, cumin, salt, black pepper, crushed red pepper, paprika, garlic powder, and onion powder. Add 1 cup water and let it simmer until it’s reduced to a tight sauce coating the meat. Keep warm.

2. Make the cheese sauce: In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and onion, then sprinkle the flour over. Cook for 3 minutes, stirring, 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. (Congrats, you just made a version of béchamel!) Add the sambal and hot sauce and simmer for 5 minutes over low heat to let it thicken. Slowly whisk in the cheese and season to taste with salt and pepper.

3. Assemble the nachos: Preheat the oven to 350°F. On a large rimmed baking sheet, lay out half the chips in a single layer with as little overlap as possible. Evenly cover with half the cheese sauce, half the shredded cheese, then half the meat. Repeat the process to make another layer on top with the remaining chips, cheese sauce, shredded cheese, and meat. Place in the oven for about 10 minutes to completely melt the cheese. Remove from the oven, carefully transfer to a platter, and evenly scatter the jalapeños, cabbage, pickled beans, sour cream, and tomato over the top. Enjoy the shit out of it.

CORN DOSAS

SERVES 8 TO 12 (MAKES 24 DOSAS)

I’ve always thought that the rice-and-lentil batter used in Indian cooking for dosa (a giant, paper-thin crepe usually stuffed with potatoes or vegetables) and idli (small, round steamed spongy cakes) posed some similarities to the cornmeal batters of the South. Could the staple grain of one side of the world, I wondered, successfully swap in for the staple grain of the other side of the world? I tinkered with the batter, letting it ferment for twenty-four hours, and was rather excited about the results. The fermentation gives it a hint of sourness, but otherwise the flavor resembles a dosa in all the important ways. The addition of cornstarch is necessary to help the dosa get crispy at the edges. I prefer to make these smaller than is traditional for individual-size portions.

FOR THE DOSAS

1½ cups corn flour

¾ cup urad flour (black lentil flour), available at South Asian markets

¼ cup cornstarch

3 cups warm water

1 tablespoon black mustard seeds

½ to 1 teaspoon kosher salt

¼ cup vegetable oil, for cooking

2 tablespoons thinly sliced cilantro, for garnish

FOR THE RAITA

2 cups plain yogurt

2 tablespoons chopped 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

FOR THE FILLING

2 cups fingerling potatoes, cut into 1-inch pieces

1 tablespoon Greek yogurt

½ cup fresh or frozen English peas, blanched

½ cup fresh or frozen sweet corn kernels, blanched

3 tablespoons Auntie’s Masala (this page)

1 tablespoon black mustard seeds

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Make the dosas: Combine the corn flour, urad flour, cornstarch, warm water, mustard seeds, and salt in a medium bowl, cover with plastic, and place in a warm spot in the kitchen for 24 hours. It should start to form small bubbles.

2. Make the raita: Whisk together the yogurt, mint, cilantro, and lime juice. Grate the cucumber on the large holes of a box grater set over a kitchen towel. Using the towel, squeeze out the cucumber liquid and add the pulp to the yogurt mix. Season with salt and pepper to taste and refrigerate until ready to serve.

3. Make the filling: Bring a medium saucepan of salted water to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the potatoes and cook until fork-tender, 10 to 12 minutes. Drain. Transfer the hot potatoes to a medium bowl and smash them with a fork until mashed but chunky. Gently fold in the yogurt, peas, corn, masala, and mustard seeds. Season to taste with salt and pepper and keep warm.

4. Cook the dosas: Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1 teaspoon of the oil to the pan and wipe it with a paper towel to create an even film. Pour ¼ cup of the dosa batter into the pan and swirl it around quickly to spread evenly and thinly to create an 8-inch pancake. Drizzle a small amount of oil around the perimeter of the pancake to crisp the edges of the dosa. Once it begins to come away from the pan, about 3 minutes, flip it to cook the other side for 30 seconds; the dosa should be crisp around the edges but foldable when done.

5. Remove the dosa from the pan and spoon some of the potato mixture down the center, then fold it over. Keep warm in a low-temperature oven and repeat with the remaining batter and filling. Top with some raita and sliced cilantro and serve immediately.

SALT AND PEPPER FRIED BLUE CRABS

SERVES 2 TO 4

Cornstarch is a constant presence in Chinese-American recipes—the key ingredient to thickening saucy stir-fries or forming the dredge for fried foods.

But in reality, cornstarch is a deeply American product, first produced commercially by Thomas Kingsford of New Jersey in the 1800s. Its connection to certain Asian dishes came out of necessity—it was a more readily available substitute for the bean starches that were originally used in Chinese cooking, so Chinese immigrants opening restaurants in the States started using cornstarch for their slurries.

Now, though, cornstarch has made the jump to China as well, as corn has become a major crop for the country. So in some dishes, the substitute has eclipsed the original ingredients.

Mixing cornstarch with egg whites creates a thin, light batter that I love to use when frying shellfish, because it doesn’t overwhelm the delicate sweet meat as a traditional batter might. Try this technique with shrimp or mild proteins like chicken. In this recipe, the exterior is extra crispy thanks to the shells, which, when fried, become deliciously crispy. You might want to try eating the shell from the thinner parts of the crab (like the back legs); they are thin and brittle and taste like the perfect crab-flavored potato chip. But if that kind of thing doesn’t appeal, feel free to use crab crackers and stick with the sweet, delicious meat.

2 quarts plus 3 tablespoons vegetable oil

8 small live blue crabs (the bigger the crab, the thicker the shell, so look for smaller ones)

2 cups cornstarch

6 large egg whites

1 medium yellow onion, roughly diced

2 red bell peppers, seeded and diced

1 jalapeño, sliced (optional)

1 bunch scallions, cut into 1-inch pieces

4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

1 teaspoon five-spice powder

Kosher salt and coarsely ground black pepper

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, plus additional sprigs, for garnish

1 lime, cut into wedges

1. In a large pot or Dutch oven, heat 2 quarts oil over medium-high heat until it reaches 300°F to 350°F on a deep-fry thermometer.

2. Meanwhile, place the crabs in the freezer for 5 minutes to shock them. Using tongs, flip each crab over on its back and use a sharp knife to pierce the crab in its abdomen, just above the “apron” (the piece that looks like a pull-tab).

3. Flip the crab upright and carefully pull off its back shell (reserve this piece). Remove the gray “gills” and rinse away any crud. Slice the crab right down the center so you have two halves. Repeat with the remaining crabs.

4. Place the crab halves and back pieces in a large bowl. In a medium bowl, whisk together the cornstarch, egg whites, and ¼ cup water. Pour the slurry over the crab pieces and toss to coat, making sure all the parts are covered.

5. Heat 3 tablespoons oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the yellow onion, bell peppers, and jalapeño (if using) and sauté until translucent, about 7 minutes. Reduce the heat to low to keep warm.

6. Working in batches so as not to crowd the pot, gently lower the crab halves and back pieces into the hot oil to fry for 3 to 5 minutes; the shells will turn bright red, while the batter will develop into a golden, crispy exterior. (If the crabs are small enough, the back pieces will be thin enough to eat; if they aren’t, I use them as a salty, flavorful vessel to spoon up the aromatics.)

7. Using tongs, carefully remove the crabs from the hot oil and transfer them straight into the sauté pan. Add the scallions, garlic, five-spice, and a generous amount of salt and pepper and toss well to coat.

8. Transfer the crabs to a platter, garnish with cilantro sprigs and a squeeze of lime juice, and serve immediately.

NOTE: There’s no science or rules about how to eat a crab, except you can’t be afraid to get messy. I usually start with the back legs, pulling them from the body and basically gnawing from top to bottom (this is why you look for the small crabs, because you can just eat the legs, shell, and all). From there, grab a set of crab crackers and crack the claws and bodies. Work the meat out with a small fork and pop it back.

Cornstarch: A Love-Hate Letter

The first time I cooked with cornstarch, I was working at a sushi restaurant in Tulsa. I was taught to use it to thicken teriyaki sauce. It was like magic—a little white powder mixed with a little cold water, whisked into a pot of watery sauce, and almost instantly it became this glossy, thick glaze that could coat all the grilled chicken thighs you could ever hope for. At that time, I had no idea what a roux was, so cornstarch was the ruler of all thickened sauces in my world. But even then, I learned quickly that you have to be pretty careful with it. If you added too much, the sauce would turn to sludge so thick you could putty a hole in the wall with it.

Fast-forward a few years, to culinary school. In class one day, we were charged with making veal stock. I was following the instructions, which called for reducing the stock for several hours in order to thicken it. Why, I wondered, when you could just use cornstarch and have it thicken up in minutes? But then I heard another guy ask the same question and get pounced on. The reason that chefs at that cooking school, and pretty much every chef I’ve worked for since, put cornstarch in a shame dungeon is because in their eyes, cornstarch imparts a viscosity that is vaguely slimy, and just doesn’t hold a candle to a velvety and intensely flavorful reduction or the rich, creamy thickness of a roux, things that chefs tend to obsess over.

When you fall back on cornstarch to thicken a sauce that is usually made by a reduction, it’s often to save time (and money, since a reduced sauce is, well, also a reduction in quantity). It’s a shortcut, and the price you pay for speed is a lower-quality dish. So I made a hard 180 in my approach to cornstarch from my early cooking days.

But there are several exceptions, where the texture that cornstarch creates is actually the very thing you’re after. It’s the distinctive gel-like consistency of the gravies that coat takeout Chinese food; it is the thing that sets up our Vinegar Pie (this page), the single most popular dessert in any of my restaurants; and it makes for an unbelievably productive dredge for frying—it goes on evenly and achieves an exterior that’s uniquely lacy and light versus crunchy and rough.

I remember rethinking my culinary school indoctrination on the evils of cornstarch the first time I hung out in the kitchen at Mala Sichuan, one of Houston’s best restaurants. As I watched Chef Ye in the kitchen, I noticed that cornstarch was a major player, though in a subtle way. Just a spoonful of a cornstarch slurry, when added to the base of mapo tofu, for example, gave the sauce just enough cling to coat the tofu and crumbled pork, rather than simply dress it. It wasn’t a shortcut—the dish is essentially a stir-fry of sorts, which you build quickly over high heat in a wok. Making a classic reduction or using a roux simply wouldn’t make sense in this context. Cornstarch for the win.

So I’ve started to realize that we have to take cornstarch out of the shame dungeon. There’s a time and a place for this ingredient, and a little bit of discretion will make sure that you keep your love affair with cornstarch alive.

CORN PORRIDGE

WITH GARLIC AND SHIITAKES

SERVES 4

This dish comes directly from my childhood in Oklahoma. I grew up eating cream of wheat as a kid, and have strong nostalgic ties to the thin, porridge-like consistency. When I moved to the South, I had to completely reset my notion of what “grits” were supposed to be—thick, creamy, hearty, and, most of all, corny.

I like to enjoy this dish the way many people enjoy polenta—it’s a bowl of very seasoned, aromatic, savory corn. But the consistency is intentionally thinner, closer to the cream of wheat I grew up with—almost like a congee. Flavored with some garlic, wine, and sautéed mushrooms on top, this is an easy lift for dinner on a cold winter night.

FOR THE PORRIDGE

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons minced garlic (about 6 cloves)

2 tablespoons diced shallot

½ cup dry white wine

4 cups chicken stock

1 cup yellow cornmeal

1 cup whole milk

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE MUSHROOMS

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 cups thinly sliced shiitake mushrooms

1 tablespoon thinly sliced garlic (about 3 cloves)

1 tablespoon minced shallot

¼ cup dry white wine

¼ cup thinly sliced scallion

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Make the porridge: In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the garlic and shallot and cook for 2 minutes, until starting to soften. Add the wine and simmer, stirring occasionally, until reduced by half, about 1 minute. Add the stock and bring to a simmer. Slowly whisk in the cornmeal, reduce the heat to low, and whisk in the milk and butter. Cook for about 40 minutes, whisking every 5 minutes to prevent sticking, until the mixture is thick and the cornmeal is cooked through (when you taste a spoonful, it should no longer have any crunch or bite to it). Add salt and pepper to taste, and keep warm.

2. Make the mushrooms: In a medium skillet, heat the oil over high heat until it begins to smoke. Add the mushrooms, stirring immediately and constantly to prevent burning. The mushrooms will soften and release their juice. Continue cooking and stirring until the juices have cooked off and the mushrooms have started to gain color, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic and shallot and cook for 3 minutes, until softened. Add the wine and scallion and cook for another 2 minutes to cook off the raw alcohol flavor. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

3. Ladle about 1 cup of porridge into each bowl and top with some of the mushroom mix. Serve warm.

CHICKEN POSOLE

SERVES 10 TO 12

I hope someone, someday, writes a book on hangover foods from around the world. If I wrote it, there would be recipes for phở, a cheeseburger, General Tso’s chicken, cold pizza, my Vietnamese Steak and Eggs (this page), and this recipe for posole. (It’d be the shortest cookbook ever.) Posole is one of the two great hangover soups of Mexico, the other being menudo. But with all due respect to the latter, the last thing I want when I wake up in the morning (especially when hung over) is a big bowl of tripe. Posole, on the other hand, is as restorative a dish as they come. Bookmark this page for the next time you wake up feeling like crap after going too hard at the bar (or if you’re just under the weather)—the braised chicken stock, kick of chile, and soft, hearty kernels of hominy corn will set you right.

We recently put posole on the brunch menu at our beer bar, Hay Merchant, and as we were testing the recipe, one of my cooks, Noe Villarreal, suggested blending half of the hominy and introducing it into the soup as a thickener. It had never occurred to me before, but it made so much sense and lends the soup a really lovely, silky texture. It also emphasizes the hominy’s nutty-sweet corn flavor.

FOR THE CHICKEN AND STOCK

1 (3- to 4-pound) whole chicken

1 large yellow onion, roughly chopped

2 carrots, cut into 1-inch pieces

2 celery stalks, cut into 1-inch pieces

5 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons whole black peppercorns

1 bunch flat-leaf parsley

5 thyme sprigs

FOR THE POSOLE

4 dried guajillo chiles

2 dried árbol chiles

2 (25-ounce) cans hominy (see this page)

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 medium yellow onion, sliced, plus ½ cup minced, for garnish

¼ cup minced garlic (about 1 head)

2 to 3 tablespoons kosher salt

2 tablespoons ground cumin

2 tablespoons dried Mexican oregano

4 cups shaved purple or green cabbage (or a mix), for garnish

½ cup chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish

2 limes, quartered, for garnish

1. Make the chicken and stock: In a large pot, combine the chicken, onion, carrots, celery, garlic, peppercorns, parsley, and thyme. Cover with 6 quarts cold water and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a light to moderate simmer and cook for about 1 hour.

2. Transfer the chicken to a cutting board and let cool. Strain the broth through a fine-mesh sieve set over a large bowl and discard the solids. Measure 4 quarts of the stock and set aside (reserve the remaining stock for another use). When the chicken is cool enough to handle, shred the meat and set aside.

3. Start the posole: In a dry skillet, gently toast the chiles over medium heat until they darken in spots and begin to smell fragrant, about 2 minutes—move them around the pan to promote even toasting. Transfer them to a small bowl and cover with hot water to soften. Let sit for about 20 minutes.

4. Pour 1 can of hominy, including the liquid in the can, into a food processor or blender and blend until it forms a puree. Set aside. Drain the other can of hominy in a fine-mesh sieve, discarding the liquid. Rinse the hominy and set aside separately from the puree.

5. Drain the chiles, reserving the water, and remove the stems and seeds. Transfer them to a food processor, add ½ cup of the soaking water, and puree until a paste forms. Set aside.

6. In a large stockpot, heat the oil over medium heat until shimmering-hot. Add the onion and cook, stirring, until it softens and gets slightly translucent, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, until you can really smell it, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the reserved chile paste, salt, cumin, and oregano and cook, stirring, for another 2 minutes to toast the spices. Add the reserved chicken stock, hominy puree, drained whole hominy, and pulled chicken meat. Increase the heat to high to bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook for 1 hour.

7. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls and garnish with some cabbage, onion, cilantro, and a squeeze of lime.

POBLANO TORTILLA SOUP

SERVES 6 TO 8

I love corn tortillas in both fresh and fried form, but I hate stale corn tortillas. I’m not the only one who’s been forced to get creative with using up stale tortillas: tortilla chips and chilaquiles were invented out of this same need.

One way that I like to get through stale tortilla leftovers is by using them to thicken sauces and soups. The first time I did this was while cooking up a chile gravy for enchiladas. I wanted to give it some structure without adding flour, so I threw in a few fried tortillas, let them stew to the point of breaking down, and then buzzed the whole thing—and found it turned into a beautiful, silky sauce.

This technique is at play here in a riff on classic tortilla soup. Rather than soggy tortilla fragments floating in liquid, tortilla chips are blended into the chile stock to create a smooth puree, both thickening the soup and adding their flavor.

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

8 poblano peppers, stemmed, seeded, and large-diced

1 large yellow onion, large-diced

1 jalapeño, stemmed, seeded, and diced

¼ cup minced garlic (about 1 head)

2 quarts chicken stock

1 (13-ounce) bag corn tortilla chips

2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

½ cup sour cream, for garnish

½ cup shredded cheddar cheese, for garnish

½ cup cherry tomatoes, quartered, for garnish

2 tablespoons fresh cilantro leaves, for garnish

1. In a medium pot or Dutch oven, heat the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the poblanos, onion, jalapeño, and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are very soft and caramelized in spots, 12 to 15 minutes. Add the stock and bring to a simmer.

2. Once the soup begins to simmer, stir in the tortilla chips. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until the tortillas are very soft. Use a blender (immersion is fine) to puree the soup until smooth. Season to taste with the lime juice, salt, and pepper (most tortilla chips are heavily salted, so taste the soup before you add salt).

3. Ladle into bowls and top each serving with a dollop of sour cream, a sprinkling of shredded cheddar, a spoonful of tomatoes, and a few cilantro leaves.

FRIED CHICKEN TAMALES

MAKES 2 TO 3 DOZEN TAMALES

I’ll be honest: I don’t typically make tamales. I purchase my tamales from Maricela Quintana, the wife of my friend Javi, who has worked with me for more than eighteen years. Maricela’s tamales are the best—moist, well seasoned, delicious savory masa cakes.

Usually, her tamales are stuffed with traditional fillings of pork or cheese. But tamales, in my mind, are kind of like fried rice: a perfect vehicle for using up leftovers. So one day I asked if she would make a batch with some leftover fried chicken (I am a chronic over-orderer of fried chicken, so it’s a constant leftover in my fridge). She kindly agreed, even though she probably had her doubts, and the result was this recipe: fried chicken and cheese tamales.

Tamales are fairly labor intensive, so if you’re going to scale up this recipe, I recommend employing the help of some buddies to make these. In Texas (and across the Southwest), tamale assembling parties, called tamaladas, are common around the holidays—families will come together to make and assemble their Christmas tamales. I’m grateful to Maricela for sharing her masa recipe with me, which yields the greatest tamales I’ve ever eaten.

FOR THE DOUGH

1 pound masa harina

1 cup lard (called manteca in Latin grocery stores)

2 to 3 teaspoons kosher salt

1½ teaspoons garlic powder

¾ teaspoon baking powder

3 cups warm chicken stock

FOR THE TAMALES

About 30 corn husks (from an 8-ounce package)

1½ pounds leftover boneless fried chicken, cut into bite-size pieces

1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

½ cup chopped pickled jalapeños

1. Make the dough: In a medium bowl, mix together the masa harina, lard, salt, garlic powder, and baking powder. Add the warm chicken stock, ½ cup at a time, stirring to make a loose dough. You may not need all the stock—add it just until the mixture feels doughy but not overly sticky. Cover with plastic and let sit at room temperature for 1 hour to set up.

2. Make the tamales: In a large bowl, soak the corn husks in warm water for 20 minutes to soften. In a medium bowl, combine the fried chicken, cheddar, and jalapeños.

3. Drain the corn husks and pat dry. On a clean work surface, lay a corn husk flat with the short edge toward you. Spoon 2 heaping tablespoons of the masa mixture in the center of the corn husk. Using the back of a spoon, spread the masa into a 4-inch rectangle, covering the top two-thirds of the corn husk (you want to leave about 1 inch between the masa and the top of the husk). Spoon 2 heaping tablespoons of the chicken mixture down the middle of the masa. Pull up both sides of the husk to help the masa surround the chicken. Release the husk flat, and wrap one side over the masa tightly, rolling until it has formed a cylinder. Then fold the bottom of the husk up to wrap around the tamale and secure the tamale by tying a small piece of baker’s twine around the bottom third of the tamale (like a belt). Repeat the process with the remaining husks, masa, and chicken—you should have about 24 tamales.

4. To cook the tamales, fill your biggest lidded stockpot about one-third of the way with water. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Set a metal colander inside it like a double boiler, and arrange the tamales, open end up, in the colander (you may have to cook in batches). You want to make sure there is clearance between the bottom of the tamales and the waterline—otherwise you’ll have soggy tamales. Cover the pot, lower the heat to medium-low, and steam for 40 minutes, checking occasionally to add more water as needed so it doesn’t evaporate. Serve hot. Annihilate.

LATE NIGHT TAMALES

Little-known fact: Hang out in a dive bar in Houston around midnight, and you might see a couple walk in with tamales, either on a tray or in a warming bag. They’ll pass from guest to guest, uttering “Tamales? Tamales?” until they get a taker who will trade them six bucks for a dozen. These tamales are almost always pork-filled and almost always greasy, but after a shift on the line, they’re pretty fantastic—especially when doused in salsa (which is typically dispensed from a Powerade or Gatorade bottle). Nobody really knows where they come from, and it’s probably not something the health department has signed off on, but it’s part of the fabric of the city, as normal as a hot dog cart on a New York City corner.

STACKED CHEESE ENCHILADAS

WITH BUTTERNUT CHILE SAUCE

SERVES 4

In Texas, the influence of one specific immigrant group, Mexican, is so large and so integral that an entire separate cuisine has been created to categorize the intersection of dishes and flavors. I’m talking of course about Tex-Mex.

It’s not uncommon to hear people talk about Tex-Mex as a cuisine that lacks authenticity. It’s easy to view queso and fajitas, dishes that have spread thanks to fast food and corporate restaurant chains, as whitewashed versions of Mexican flavors. But my friend Robb Walsh, the food writer and historian, has done some amazing research on the origin of Tex-Mex, tracing it back all the way to the presence of Spanish missionaries in Texas in the eighteenth century.

One of my favorite Tex-Mex dishes is enchiladas, made with a thickened chile sauce that we refer to as “chile gravy.” Often, it’s thickened with flour, like a roux, but I love using pureed butternut squash to do the job (incidentally, it keeps this dish gluten-free). The squash adds a touch of sweetness that complements chiles perfectly.

I also use the “stacked” method (in which you layer tortillas with sauce and cheese) instead of the “rolled” method (in which you roll tortillas stuffed with cheese and line them up in a pan) because when I’m cooking at home, time-saving informality sometimes (always) wins out over traditional busy work.

FOR THE BUTTERNUT CHILE SAUCE

8 ounces cubed butternut squash (about 2 cups)

½ jalapeño, stemmed, seeded, and chopped

1 ancho chile, toasted (see this page), stemmed, seeded, and chopped

2 garlic cloves

¼ cup medium-diced white onion

½ to 1 teaspoon kosher salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon ground cumin

1½ cups chicken stock or water

FOR THE ENCHILADAS

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for greasing the pan

12 corn tortillas

2 cups shredded cheddar cheese

4 large eggs

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

4 tablespoons sour cream

Quick-pickled red onions (see this page)

2 tablespoons fresh cilantro leaves

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F.

2. Make the sauce: In a medium saucepan, combine the squash, chiles, garlic, onion, salt, pepper, cumin, and chicken stock and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook until the butternut is tender, about 40 minutes. Using a blender (immersion is fine), puree the mixture until smooth—you should have about 2 cups of sauce.

3. For the enchiladas: Grease a 9-inch pie pan with butter. Ladle ½ cup sauce into the bottom of the pan. Arrange 4 tortillas in an even layer on top of the sauce (they will overlap slightly). Cover with another ½ cup sauce and one-third of the cheese. Repeat until you’ve used all the tortillas. Cover the top with the remaining cheese and transfer to the oven. Bake for 30 minutes, or until hot and bubbling, then remove from the oven and let rest for 20 minutes.

4. While the enchiladas rest, melt the butter in a small nonstick pan over medium heat. Crack the eggs into the pan. Reduce the heat to low and cook the eggs until the whites are set but the yolks are still runny, about 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Transfer the eggs to a plate and set aside.

5. To serve, cut the casserole into 4 big-daddy slices, place on plates, and top each with a fried egg. Garnish with 1 tablespoon sour cream, some pickled red onions, and cilantro leaves and serve immediately.

CHILE-BRAISED CHICKEN

WITH CORNMEAL WAFFLES

SERVES 4

The waffle iron creates breads that have perfect crevices for capturing delicious sauce, yet those crevices are mostly used only to contain syrup. I wanted to use the waffle’s form for a savory dish, to hold something rich and spicy and savory. So we decided to mess around with using cornbread batter on the waffle iron and topping it with a rich, saucy, chile-braised chicken.

I ladled some batter onto the iron, then walked away to tend to something else. I got sucked into a conversation, and when I came back, the thing was burnt beyond recognition. It was completely black and had affixed itself to the waffle iron in such a determined way that we actually had to replace the entire iron. Now, anytime someone burns something, we refer to it as “replacing the waffle iron.”

The moral of the story is twofold: Don’t walk away from your waffle iron, and get used to the idea of making savory waffles. You’ll thank me on both counts.

FOR THE SAUCE

3 ancho chiles, toasted (see this page), stemmed, and seeded

1 medium white onion, roughly chopped

2 tablespoons roughly chopped garlic (about 6 cloves)

2 cups chicken stock

1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE CHICKEN

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken thighs (my favorite cut of chicken)

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 cup thinly sliced white onion

½ cup thinly sliced celery

½ cup thinly sliced carrot

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, for garnish

Lime wedges, for garnish

FOR THE WAFFLES

2½ cups cornmeal

1½ cups all-purpose flour

½ cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

2 to 3 teaspoons kosher salt

1½ teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

1½ teaspoons paprika

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon cayenne

3 cups buttermilk

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon honey

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted

2 cups fresh or frozen corn kernels

Nonstick cooking spray

1. Make the sauce: Combine the chiles, onion, garlic, stock, vinegar, and cumin in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for 30 minutes, or until the onion and chiles have softened and begun to break down. Using a blender (immersion is fine), puree the sauce. Season lightly with salt and pepper, since you’ll be reducing the sauce later.

2. Make the chicken: Season the chicken with salt and pepper. In a medium stockpot or Dutch oven, heat the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Add the chicken in an even layer (working in batches if you have to) and let cook, undisturbed, until golden brown on one side, about 4 minutes. Flip and continue to cook until both sides have a nice sear, another 4 minutes. Transfer the chicken to a plate.

3. Add the onion, celery, and carrot to the pot and cook, stirring, for 3 minutes. Return the chicken to the pot, along with the reserved chile sauce, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for 1 hour, until the chicken can be easily pulled apart. Transfer the chicken to a cutting board and, when cool enough to handle, shred the meat. Place the pot over high heat until it comes to a boil, then cook until the liquid reduces by half, about 15 minutes. You want a nice, thick sauce. Return the chicken to the sauce and season to taste with salt and pepper. Keep warm.

4. Make the waffles: Preheat a waffle iron to medium-high heat, and preheat the oven to the lowest setting. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, black pepper, paprika, baking soda, and cayenne. In a medium bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, eggs, and honey. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and whisk until just combined. Fold in the melted butter and the corn kernels—try not to overmix.

5. Grease both sides of the waffle iron with nonstick cooking spray and ladle some of the batter (about ¾ cup for a standard round waffle iron) onto the iron. Close the iron and cook until the batter is baked through and crispy on the edges. Continue with the remaining batter, greasing the iron as necessary in between rounds. Keep the finished waffles warm in the oven as you work.

6. To serve, place a waffle on each plate, top with some chicken and sauce, garnish with cilantro and a squeeze of lime.

The Hidden Cornfields of Houston

When I was a kid, one of the many errands that I used to go on with my mother involved a fifteen-minute drive to the red brick farm stand of Conrad Farms. Located in Bixby, Oklahoma, it was known for its giant watermelons, its Amish jam (not sure what that was, but there was always a sign advertising it), and its corn.

Mom would buy a bunch of corn, and we’d load it up in the yellow station wagon to head home. Back at the house, the work of prepping the corn began. We’d leave some out for dinner (corn on the cob, grilled, with butter and salt—one of my favorite meals on this earth when paired with chicken or burgers). The rest we’d put away by quickly poaching the husked ears in salted water, and packing them away in zip-top plastic bags in the freezer. We’d pull out the frozen corn all year, as a staple side dish to the pot roast, Swiss steak, or meatloaf that would feature at the center of my childhood meals.

But honestly, these farm visits really felt like more of a nuisance to me as a kid. I just wanted to go play with my friends, to hop on my Schwinn (with mag wheels, of course) and ride around for hours, maybe stopping to go fishing at the cow pond, depending on the day.

Fast-forward many years to my job as a line cook at Brennan’s in Houston. I’d been curious why we were ordering so much of our produce from a giant company. Once I was promoted to sous chef, I felt like I could start asking. The short answer was, at that time, that my bosses didn’t really know where to look for local produce. There weren’t farmers delivering to restaurant doors the way they do now. There wasn’t even a farmers’ market featuring local produce. So they made me a deal: If I could find the farms, they would give me a budget.

So on my days off, me and my best friend, Randy, who also worked at Brennan’s, would wander out in my car to the rural areas that surround Houston, looking for anything resembling a farm. We’d stop at feed stores to ask around about folks with crops to sell, which led us to Alvin, a small town about a forty-minute drive from the city.

From there, we hunted down roadside signs for “homegrown tomatoes” or “fresh corn.” Most of it was produce that someone was growing in their backyard, the fruits of a part-time hobby that could never supply a restaurant as busy as ours. But ultimately, following these signs led us to Mr. Mike Williams.

When we pulled up to his house, we saw a small table by the mailbox with just a few tomatoes on it and a cash box using the honor system. We knocked on his door and asked if we could talk about tomatoes.

Mr. Williams (we always referred to him this way) was a kind, gentle man. He led us around the back, and there, hidden behind the house, were two large greenhouses filled with tomato plants, fig and peach trees, and rows upon rows of corn—a cornucopia that we never expected. Randy and I ogled the produce and pretty quickly a small love affair was born. We started to go out and buy from him every other week, and on days when he didn’t have anything to sell me, we’d sit on his porch and drink tea before I drove back into town.

Then there was Froberg Farm. One of our cooks was from Alvin, and when he got word that we’d been buying produce down there, he suggested we go see the Froberg family. Pulling up, I could’ve been back in Bixby, getting to Conrad Farms in my mother’s yellow station wagon. There were rows and rows of produce and preserves, plus a hut outside full of sausage.

These relationships turned me on to more farms, which turned into more farms, until soon everything I was buying came from a nearby farm. In fact, many of the farms we have worked with have grown up with us. And simultaneously, local food has become relevant, even mainstream. Now Houston has a good-sized farmers’ market.

But to me, it’s still about a sense of community, about one-on-one conversations and relationships. Local isn’t just about the ingredients but about the people. About talking to the people who grow and cook the food of where you are. I approached those early drives to the farms the same way I approached my meals at restaurants all over the city: from a place of curiosity, respect, passion, and an open ear. It led me to great corn, and it led me to porch-side afternoons with Mr. Williams.

MOM’S CORN ON THE COB

SERVES 4

4 ears of the freshest corn you can find (the silks at the top should still be green, not brown or soggy)

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

Kosher salt

Preheat a hot grill. While the grill warms up, shuck the corn.

Place the ears on the grill and cook, rotating every minute or two, until the corn darkens in spots. Remove the corn from the grill. While the corn is still hot, rub it back and forth along the top of the stick of butter, rotating the cob as you go to completely coat. Season liberally with salt and serve immediately (preferably next to grilled chicken, which was my favorite meal as a kid, and still is today).

HOUSTON PULLED PORK AND GRITS

SERVES 8

If I had to sum up what we were trying to accomplish at Underbelly with a single dish, I think it would be this one. It’s pretty straightforward—pulled pork over grits—but the details behind it tell the story of Houston and, on a broader scale, my philosophy of what it means to cook locally in this country.

Let’s start with the grits. Grits are a staple of the South, but for some reason, I couldn’t find locally milled grits in our area (despite the fact that plenty of corn is grown around Houston). So I asked a farmer friend of mine if she’d consider growing a variety of dent corn that is especially great for milling into grits. Not only did she agree; she mentioned that she had a corn mill from the 1900s to mill it on. The first batch of grits that we received was transcendent—they tasted like fresh popcorn. I wanted to honor that incredible flavor, so we cooked them very simply, with just water, butter, salt, and pepper.

I knew that I wanted to combine this locally farmed ingredient with something that represented the “other” local: Houston’s local people. So I stewed pork shoulder with the caramelized fish sauce flavors of thịt kho (see this page), the common Vietnamese pork dish that I love. Would you ever see it served over grits in Vietnam? Hell, no. Would you ever see fish sauce in a traditional Southern recipe for pork and grits? Hell, no. But this dish is beyond delicious (seriously, it might be my favorite recipe in the book), and it encapsulates everything I want my food to be.

FOR THE PORK

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 (4-pound) boneless pork shoulder

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 cups thinly sliced white onion

½ cup garlic cloves

3 jalapeños, halved lengthwise

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

2 quarts chicken stock

1 cup fish sauce

2 cinnamon sticks

6 star anise pods

FOR THE GRITS

1 cup whole milk

½ cup coconut milk

1 cup grits

4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. In a large stockpot, heat the oil over medium-high heat until shimmering-hot. Season the pork shoulder all over with salt and pepper. Sear the pork about 4 minutes per side, until nicely browned all over. Transfer to a plate and set aside.

2. Add the onion and cook, stirring, until it starts to soften and have some color, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic, jalapeños, and brown sugar. When the sugar melts and begins to caramelize, add the stock, fish sauce, cinnamon, and star anise. Return the pork to the pot and bring to a simmer. Reduce to medium-low heat and cook at a moderate simmer, uncovered (to let the amazing aromas permeate your house), until the pork is fork-tender, about 2½ hours. Transfer the pork to a plate and shred the meat with two forks. Continue to cook the liquid over high heat until reduced by 75 percent, about 20 minutes—it should be a bit sticky, with a shine to it. Strain the sauce, discarding the solids, then return it to the pot. Return the shredded pork to the sauce and mix to combine.

3. Make the grits: In a medium saucepan, combine the milk, coconut milk, and 1½ cups water and bring to a boil over high heat. (Watch it carefully so that it doesn’t boil over.) As soon as the mixture comes to a boil, whisk the grits into the pot in a slow stream and lower the heat to a simmer. Continue to cook, whisking occasionally, until the grits are thick and tender, 30 to 40 minutes. Whisk in the butter and season with salt and pepper to taste.

4. To serve, spoon some grits into each bowl and top with some of the shredded pork. Serve immediately.

VINEGAR PIE

MAKES ONE 13-INCH TART

This is our most popular dessert from our Underbelly days, and while it might be a stretch to have it in the Corn chapter, I couldn’t bear leaving it out of this book. (There is cornstarch in the recipe, so there’s that.) It’s based on an old Appalachian recipe, modeled after a chess pie. Vinegar stood in for citrus, which was historically expensive and out of reach for the Southern farming class. In this way, it reminds me of so many of the immigrant recipes that I love, where culinary substitutions and adaptations are a necessity to approximate the flavors of home with different ingredients and equipment.

FOR THE CRUST

11 tablespoons unsalted butter

⅓ cup sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting

¼ to ½ teaspoon kosher salt

Nonstick cooking spray

FOR THE FILLING

4 large eggs

2 cups sugar

5 tablespoons cornstarch

Juice of ½ lemon

⅛ to ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ cup Korean apple vinegar (see Note)

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste or extract

1. Make the crust: In a medium bowl using a handheld mixer, mix the butter and sugar until creamy and completely combined. Add the egg and vanilla and mix until combined. Mix in the flour and salt until just combined, making sure not to overmix. Gather the dough into a ball, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

2. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Coat a 13-inch tart pan with a removable bottom with nonstick spray.

3. Place the chilled dough on a flour-dusted work surface and roll it into a ½-inch-thick round. Transfer the dough to the prepared tart shell and trim the edges. Line the shell with parchment or aluminum foil and fill with weights of your choosing (dry beans or rice work well). Bake for 15 minutes, or until the edges start to brown. Remove the pie weights and parchment or foil and finish baking until the bottom of the crust is completely cooked, about 10 more minutes.

4. Make the filling: In a large saucepan, whisk together the eggs and sugar. Add the cornstarch, lemon juice, and salt, whisking until there are no more clumps. Mix in the vinegar and 2 cups water and bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat, whisking constantly. Let it boil for 1 full minute, then remove it from the heat and whisk in the butter and vanilla. Pour the filling into the baked tart shell and place plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pie to prevent a skin from forming. Chill overnight before serving.

NOTE: Korean apple vinegar is the semi-secret weapon that distinguishes this vinegar pie from other recipes out there. Korean apple vinegar is less acidic than American apple cider vinegar, so it works well in this sweet application. The brand we use is called Ottogi, with an orange label and the number 2 on it. (I wish I could be more specific, but the rest of the label is in Korean.) If you can’t find it, you can try using another mild apple cider vinegar (not Bragg’s, which will overpower everything). If you have only a strong vinegar, you can try diluting it with water to taste.