These are my important main courses. As a rule they can serve more than two, with most of them able to be served to anyone at anytime. The last few—the Southern Bouillabaisse and the Cassoulet, among others—are suited for more than just a few, and they take thought and time, although each of the steps is easy and nothing is foreboding except the number of ingredients.
I’ve included roast chickens and turkey because I think every-one should learn to cook them. Due to their shape and having both light and dark meat, they don’t cook evenly; but once understood, they can just be thrown into the oven with their seasonings and left alone most of the time. Their flavor outshines that of any other simple dish, and they provide leftovers.
I live on the seacoast, so fish also play a prominent role in my life, after going most of my life with only a favored few and rarely having just-caught seafood. What a pleasure they are.
Note: If you are missing shrimp and grits in this section, because it is so easily an evening meal, you will find it in breakfasts.
My 105-pound, very attractive friend arrived having had a couple of drinks. “Can I fix you some dinner?” I asked, being a bit hungry myself and ready for real food. “No,” she said, “I’m being good. Last night I ate a great chocolate dessert at the restaurant!” As if not eating dinner was being good. Since when did being good have anything to do with dinner?
This whole fad of not eating at home and going on a binge in a restaurant undermines the fundamental joy of food. Food should be nurturing, a means of sharing with friends and family at home, and creating bridges for communication and exchanging memories. What a switch from when I was a child and you had to eat what was in front of you, whether you wanted it or not. If you weren’t punished for not eating all your food, you were at least made to feel guilty about all the starving children in China who didn’t have enough to eat—as if that food from your plate could mysteriously have been delivered to a child in China. And you didn’t get dessert if you didn’t eat the main course. Surely, somewhere in between there is a sensible balance.
Another dear friend is very worried about her husband’s cholesterol. Once every couple of months I have a craving for country-cooked greasy foods, which I satisfy at home. The other day, she joined us when we were eating a lunch of turnip greens and cornbread made with fatback.
She declared how good it was and how much her husband would love it. “Don’t you fix turnip greens for him any more?” we asked. “NO!” she said. “I keep him on a strict diet. But he goes out three times a week with his cronies, and that’s when they eat all this rich, fattening food.” We asked if fixing it occasionally at home—enough to satisfy his cravings for what was familiar—would stop him from eating incorrectly those three times a week. “NO,” she said, “he wants it when he goes out to eat.”
What a shame! The food that satisfies him, makes him happy, makes him feel nurtured, is what he gets away from home. What he eats at home is tasty—she’s a good cook. Her efforts in her own kitchen at home have reduced his cholesterol, and he is now in good physical shape. But they have decided between them that the restaurant is the place for special occasions for him, and home is the place for what he feels is punishment food—the healthy food. She can feel good about keeping him healthy, because she doesn’t actually feed him or see him eating the food she knows is bad for him. Thus he can “sin” out of the home with his fat-laden meals.
I have another friend, whom I call a cook-on-a-perch since he doesn’t cook every day, as I do. He mostly eats out. He complains about my using canned chicken stock in an everyday soup. Dilettante cook that he is, he can look down his nose at those of us who feed family and friends day in and day out, and say, “No canned chicken stock, pul-leeze. It is too salty.” When salty canned stock is reduced by boiling, it can be too salty. But when it is simmered gently and briefly, or diluted, it is not. More importantly, it is much better than no stock at all in the soup, or eating out. Moreover, the number of restaurants that use homemade chicken stock is very small—all but the finest use a prepared product!
This same man who complains about the salt in my canned chicken stock knows which brand of potato chips are his favorite and is a connoisseur of beers. It isn’t salt he objects to—it is salt on real food. I know people who eat high-salt frozen foods that are low in calories (promoted as being “slim” or “lean” foods) but that are also often high in cholesterol or additives. My potato-chip friend also loves ice cream.
The egg is currently getting a bad rap from the cholesterol-conscious. Yet while the simple egg is still the best form of nutrition for a starving family, many low-income families don’t know how to cook an egg and frequently spend much too great a proportion of their income on so-called fast foods and eating out. They’d rather have a fatty hamburger any day than eat an egg at home.
A solution? I don’t have one that everyone will accept. I am for balanced meals and for not overeating any one thing. Unless your medical doctor has put you on a special diet, I’m for having meat loaf and mashed potatoes one night, and grilled chicken and steamed vegetables the next. I’m for eating at home and serving a meal that satisfies as well as nourishes. And, if “sin” is the issue, let it be chocolate—the whole family does deserve an occasional chocolate bash!
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
When I was chef of the restaurant C’an Poleta in Majorca, the only cookbooks I had were one by Michael Fields and the Cordon Bleu paperback I had used in cooking school. This recipe, adapted from Michael Fields, is actually a much older one, its origins in French cookery long ago. It has kept its popularity over the ages because it is so delicious. The garlic melts as it cooks and its flavor changes to a gentler one than when raw.
Serves 4 to 6
2 tablespoons oil, cook’s preference
2 tablespoons butter
50 garlic cloves, peeled
1 (3-pound) whole chicken
2 sprigs fresh rosemary, more for serving if desired
2 cups chicken stock, divided
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Heat the oil and butter over medium heat in a large frying pan. Add the 50 garlic cloves and cook for a few minutes, until slightly brown. Remove garlic with a slotted spoon, shaking off excess fat, and stuff inside the chicken cavity with the rosemary sprigs. Brush the outside with any remaining oil and butter from the pan.
Move the chicken into a metal or ovenproof roasting pan and tie the legs together or truss. Add 1/2 cup chicken stock to the pan. Bake until the thickest part of the chicken reaches 165–170 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, about 45 minutes to 1 hour, turning over once.
Remove the chicken and set aside. Add remaining broth to the pan. Spoon out the garlic from the chicken and add to the pan. Bring to the boil and boil steadily until liquid reduces by half. Skim off fat. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Serve chicken with the sauce. May be made ahead 1 to 2 days and reheated, but it’s best served freshly made.
Tip: To peel a large quantity of garlic cloves, find two metal bowls of the same size. Separate cloves into one bowl and cover with the other like a dome. Holding the two bowls together tightly, shake several times until peel comes off easily.
Grilled Roman-Style Lemon Chicken
There was a time when Marcella Hazan and a few others brought Italian cooking to America. It is hard to separate the recipes from the cooking we all did because those recipes are as familiar to us as our own. Marcella conducted cooking classes in Italy attended by worshipful acolytes, although I did not learn this recipe from her. I learned it around the same time but first tasted it with a group of food writers on the roof top of a simple restaurant. I came home and cooked and taught it at Rich’s cooking school. That recipe is lost to the years, as sometimes I stuff lemon slices under the skin and sometimes cook it as is. But when in doubt, I double check Marcella’s books.
Serves 4 to 6
1 (3-pound) whole chicken
1/2–3/4 cup lemon juice
2 tablespoons lemon zest
4 tablespoons oil, cook’s preference, divided
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 lemon, sliced, for garnish
With the chicken breast facing down, remove the backbone by cutting up either side of the backbone with a sharp knife or kitchen scissors. Flip the chicken over with its breast on top. Crack the breastbone using both your hands and spread the chicken as flat as possible. Use a small knife to make small vertical slits where the wings and legs join the body, without removing them, in order to flatten it. Turn the chicken over and lay a sheet of plastic wrap over the top. Using a meat pounder or the bottom side of a heavy skillet, pound it out as flat as possible. Remove plastic.
Move the chicken to a large ziplock bag or roasting pan. Mix lemon juice, lemon zest, and 2 tablespoons of the oil together in a small bowl and pour over the chicken. Season with salt and pepper. Close bag or cover pan and refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours to marinate. Remove from refrigerator about 30 minutes before ready to cook.
Preheat the oven to 500 degrees.
Preheat a flat, oven-proof grill or griddle pan on top of the stove over medium heat. Remove chicken to a paper towel–lined plate, drain marinade into a small saucepan, and set aside. Pat chicken dry.
Wrap a heavy ovenproof skillet or a brick with aluminum foil. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons oil to the hot pan, then the chicken, skin-side down. Weigh down with the heavy skillet. Brown over medium heat, about 5 minutes. Carefully move to the hot oven with the weight on top. Cook 10 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the marinade to the boil and boil a few minutes. Remove the weight from the chicken. Brush the chicken with reserved marinade and flip chicken over. Cook until chicken reaches an internal temperature of 165 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, about 10 to 15 minutes.
When chicken is done, move to a board to rest. Brown the lemon slices lightly in the pan juices, about 4 to 5 minutes. Garnish chicken with the sliced lemons. Add any remaining pan juices to the reserved marinade. Serve the cooked marinade and Fennel-Olive Relish alongside the chicken.
The first person who thought of combining fennel and olives deserves a rush of praise, and so I praise this for its ever tastiness. It goes with almost anything savory and is a favorite of mine above pickle-type relishes. I got the original recipe from David Tanis in the New York Times but have adapted and changed it. I’ve been making it for so long that it’s a bit slap dash in the making.
I use a food processor, which makes quick work of the recipe and results in a tapenade-like texture. For a more rustic finish, the ingredients can be finely chopped by hand. If chopping the parsley in the food processor, use an empty, dry food processor bowl. Chop the parsley first and then set it aside in a prep dish.
Makes 1 1/2 cups
2 garlic cloves
1 1/2 cups pitted black olives
1/2 fennel bulb, root and stems, with fronds removed and reserved
1 teaspoon lemon zest, no white included
1–2 tablespoons lemon juice
Freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1 tablespoon finely chopped fennel fronds
2 tablespoons chopped capers, optional
Add garlic to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade and pulse until finely chopped. Add olives and pulse a few times until chopped. Thinly slice fennel and add to food processor; pulse until evenly chopped, 4 to 5 times. Remove to a bowl, and add lemon zest and lemon juice. Season with black pepper. Chop the fennel fronds. Stir in the parsley and chopped fennel fronds. Add capers, if using. It will last in a container refrigerated for a week.
In the way that foods have of becoming fashionable, pigeon is now in vogue. Sometimes it is called squab, which is really a baby pigeon.
My first experience in cooking pigeons was with my Uncle Ray. As my mother liked to remind us, Uncle Ray was only an uncle by marriage. The implication was that he did things that our family would not do. One of them was to catch pigeons on the railroad trestle. He had done this since he was a small boy, bringing them home to his mother for supper. As a grown man, he relished the memory of his mother’s squabs and wanted his wife—my Aunt Marion—to bring back for him the magic of his mother’s cooking by cooking the pigeons he brought home. My Aunt Marion was not the best of cooks although she made a wonderful Kool-Aid punch full of fresh fruit, and a great sliced ham sandwich. But she did not like cooking those pigeons.
Each summer when we went to visit my grandmother and aunt, we would go out with Uncle Ray to catch the squabs. My sister and I would be roused from our beds early in the morning to pile into the car, the sleep barely washed from our eyes. We wore what girls wore in those days—cotton pants, a halter, and a cotton long-sleeve shirt.
Ray’s railroad trestle (our abiding name for it, although it belonged, clearly, to the railroad company) was over a big body of water, perhaps a rushing stream, and stretched a considerable distance. It was wooden, with gravel and stones between the tracks. Uncle Ray would park the old car at the bottom of a very steep embankment, which we would then climb up with nothing to hold onto except scrubby grass and dirt and an occasional scrawny tree.
Each of us would carry shoe boxes under our arms with holes punched by a screwdriver, in which we would place our prey. We would also bring some tape to hold the lid down as we slipped and slid down the hill with our quarry.
Once on top of the trestle, we would walk the tracks looking for the birds. They had to be exactly the right size to suit Ray, who knew just what he wanted. Whenever he had settled for large pigeons he had been disappointed. We were looking for little pigeons he could take home, fatten up and clean out for a few days, and then get my aunt to kill in some unspeakable manner and to roast them. We liked the idea of garnering the squabs, bringing them home to my Aunt Marion, and having them to play with for some days. We liked neither the killing nor the eating of them.
Neither did Aunt Marion, who found keeping the squabs on the side porch a dirty, nasty process, and who muttered constantly about the fact that pigeons were filthy birds—as anyone could tell by going down to the Capitol and seeing the mess they made.
The last time my Aunt Marion let us go squab hunting was when a train came over the tracks. One thing Uncle Ray had always neglected to tell Aunt Marion was that there were a lot of KEEP OFF signs on the trestle. There was no room on the trestle for anything but a train. What railings there were weren’t suitable for hanging on to. So, when the train came, there was general confusion. Fortunately, we had heard the sound of the train from a distance.
This time we were in the middle of the narrow trestle. We had filled our boxes with some plump little birds and were sitting with our feet dangling over the side, looking at the water, basking in the sun, when suddenly we heard the sound of the train. There was no whistle. Maybe trains don’t whistle on bridges that are supposed to be empty. But we heard the chugging and looked up to see it heading right for us. We grabbed our boxes, leaving behind our shirts, running all the while to the end of the trestle.
Uncle Ray was a coward to boot. Running ahead of us, he yelled back to us to hurry. We were running as hard as we could, unthinkingly clutching those shoe boxes. At the end of the trestle, which he reached way before we did, he found an insecure perch on the side of the steep hill and grabbed for us. By then the conductor had spotted us, and the train was whistling loud and clear. But, of course, the train couldn’t stop, and we had the good sense to know that seeing us and stopping the train were two different things.
We made it. We got some cuts and scratches as we scrambled down the hill with our boxes wedged under our arms. I had slipped on the gravel and had some fragments embedded in my arm. We washed in the stream as best we could, but it didn’t clean us up much. We had lost our shirts as well as tearing our pants. When we got home, we were all scolded, including Uncle Ray.
Before we left that summer, we ate those birds. In spite of my Aunt’s grumbling that we could have all been killed, Uncle Ray persisted in feeding them and, finally, “putting them to rest.” Aunt Marion browned them and set them in a pan in the oven and finished them off. They were delicious, fat, moist. For some reason I didn’t mind eating those squabs. Maybe because by then I had embellished the story of my near-death so that in my mind it was a heroine’s feast.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
Brining seems to be a necessary evil for the mass-produced turkey. Organic ones, however, seem to be fine without it, or with just a light rub of salt.
For many of us, carving a turkey at the table is a needlessly difficult task contrived by Norman Rockwell and Charles Dickens; I feel it should be done in the kitchen. Rather than stuff the turkey, which contributes to a dry breast, flavor it with an onion, carrot, and a few fresh herbs placed in the cavity. Sometimes a quartered lemon. If a rack is not available, the onions and carrots can form a resting place for the turkey in the bottom of the roasting pan. I keep stock in the bottom of the pan to prevent burning of the juices and ensure a scrumptious gravy. This creates a bit of steam, so take care when opening and closing the oven.
Serves 8 to 10
1 (12-to-14-pound) turkey, fresh or thawed
Oil for pan
3 onions, quartered, divided
3 carrots, divided
1 lemon, quartered, optional
Chopped fresh herbs to taste, such as rosemary, sage, thyme, optional
1/2 cup melted butter or oil, cook’s preference
4–6 cups turkey or chicken stock or broth
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2–1 cup heavy cream, optional
Basting Liquid, optional
1 cup white wine
1/2 cup butter
1 sprig thyme
1 sprig sage
1 bay leaf
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Have a large piece of cheesecloth at hand.
Defrost turkey, if frozen, in the refrigerator, which may take several days. Unwrap fresh or frozen turkey a day or several hours ahead in the refrigerator to dry the skin. Oil a large roasting pan and rack, if using, and set aside (I use a giant, round, flat-bottomed roasting pan, similar to a deep paella pan).
Clean the turkey of any parts at the neck or the cavity. Add half the onions and carrots and all the lemon, if using, with the fresh herbs to the cavity of the turkey. If using a rack, put the remaining vegetables underneath in the roasting pan. If not, put the carrots in the center of the pan, with the onions surrounding them.
Tie the turkey’s legs together and move to the rack or on top of the vegetables in the prepared pan. Brush turkey with butter or oil, particularly the breast. Add enough stock to come 1 to 2 inches up the sides of the turkey. Roast for 1 hour.
Open the door carefully to remove turkey from the oven, watching out for steam. If the stock has boiled down to less than 1 inch up the sides, add enough to bring it up to 2 inches. Return it to the oven and roast for 1 hour more. Cover with foil if browning too much. Or make the optional Basting Liquid by combining all ingredients in a small pot and bringing to the boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer a few minutes to allow herbs to infuse their flavor; then remove from heat. Carefully dip the cheesecloth into the warm mixture just to moisten, then lay across the top of the turkey. Continue cooking the turkey, basting occasionally with remaining liquid.
Remove the turkey and check for doneness. An instant-read thermometer inserted in the thigh should read 165 degrees, and the juices should run clear when a knife is inserted into the flesh of the thigh. Remove and let rest 30 minutes before carving. There will be some wonderful pan juices. If the juices seem fatty, skim off the fat with a paper towel or use a fat separator (see Degreasing). Add any remaining stock to the pan. Move pan to a burner and bring juices to the boil over high heat, stirring constantly, and boil down to reduce until rich and flavorful. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Use the juices alone as a light sauce, or make Traditional Turkey Gravy. For a richer sauce, add the cream and boil until thick.
Notes
• A good instant-read thermometer is a must for judging accurately when a turkey is done.
• Rubbing a turkey, frozen or defrosted, with 1 tablespoon salt per 5 pounds of turkey 2 or 3 days in advance and massaging a couple of times a day will result in a tastier turkey and allow osmosis to occur, tenderizing the meat. Pat dry with a paper towel. In addition, leaving the turkey an hour or so at room temperature before baking and allowing the skin to dry out a bit will result in a crisper skin.
• It is easier for me to roast two smaller turkeys than one larger one. My reasoning is that a large turkey takes longer to cook, is more challenging for the home cook to handle, and is difficult to store before cooking. Using two small turkeys allows for one of them to be roasted and carved ahead of time, even the night before, and one to be the “show piece” on the table. The carved turkey takes up less space in the refrigerator, and there are all those wonderful bones for stock, gravy, and soup.
Gravy is the star of the turkey. My grandmother always made the gravy at my Aunt Flo’s Thanksgiving dinners. Everyone bragged on it while poor Flo got no credit for doing everything else.
Making gravy at the last minute is maddening and unnecessary. Make the gravy the night before Thanksgiving from the juices of the extra turkey (see previous recipe), or from previously made stock. Keep it refrigerated covered, and reheat it in the microwave. If there aren’t enough juices, boil up some of those extra turkey bones to make additional stock. See the Amber Turkey Stock recipe if an additional turkey is not available, and make it ahead so that there will be sufficient stock to make enough gravy. Both stock and gravy freeze well. Remember the liver is to be used for another purpose as it makes the gravy bitter.
Makes 4 cups
3 tablespoons fat from the pan juices
Giblets, cut up, optional
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2–3 cups turkey or chicken stock or broth, degreased, see Degreasing
1 cup heavy cream, optional, divided
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Heat 3 tablespoons of the fat over high heat in a 2-quart saucepan. Add the giblets if using, without the liver, and brown. Whisking continuously, add the flour and cook until the mixture turns light brown, about 2 to 3 minutes, making a roux. Whisk in the stock, and continue to stir or whisk until boiling and thickened. If it is lumpy, strain it and return to the pan. If using the cream, add half to the hot pan and whisk over heat until thickened and reduced. (It is okay to boil the cream, provided the pan is a sufficient size to hold stock and cream.) Taste and add more cream if desired, return to the boil, and boil until reduced slightly. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Cover with plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming on the top of the gravy. Refrigerate up to 3 days or freeze. Reheat in microwave or on stovetop.
Thanksgiving is a holiday in which food takes on the leading role. There is perhaps no other day in America when the entire activity rests on feeding and eating. Yet it is also fraught with hidden agendas and mixed feelings. In addition to the joy of being with family and friends, tensions can develop that stretch the full length of the table. The pressure on the cook, as well as the diner, is enormous, and the power exchanges mighty. Let’s assume that there is great love and affection at the meal. But as relationships change, there are issues in a family that need to be negotiated and understood. Sometimes these are unspoken, but they are still there.
Learning how to negotiate and to be flexible in feeding others on this day brings food into its seat of power. Who, for instance, when agendas are mixed, determines the time of eating? Will the meal interfere with a football game, a date, or perhaps a commitment to another set of family, such as in-laws? Why, on this one day of all days, should people who normally eat at twelve or one and then again at seven or eight be hungry at three or five? A wise cook focuses the fete as close to a normal eating time as possible, and makes provisions for her guests clear when making arrangements. Tummies and tempers will be better for it. Providing a snack if the meal is to be delayed will help.
The cook is subject to a set of skewed feelings. Will she or he feel obligated to rise early and give up the greater portion of a day (or days) to work the serving time around people who would rather be elsewhere? Does the cook feel that if the meal isn’t eaten with gusto at a certain time it is evidence of lack of appreciation? And will she or he have time to clean up, alone, while everyone flees to another activity?
I can rarely be gracious about delayed meals (in my home or others’) when others don’t want to give up another activity to come to the table, or because they think the time of eating is not crucial.
The guest list is important—to everyone. Fantasies on one person’s part of inviting the homeless or great aunt, but counting on others to entertain them, can cause family upheaval. At the same time, omitting a favorite aunt or girl friend of a teenager, or not figuring out a way to include in-laws or the needy may make someone feel a real sense of loss at an otherwise happy time.
Some people like strangers, others don’t. I’ll never forget the time I spontaneously invited a stranger in town to an in-law’s table, thinking I had checked and understood. I didn’t.
Expectations of the diners become a force as well. Do they expect someone who never cooks for more than four all year long to all of a sudden be able to prepare dinner for fifteen with no help? Is their idea of the holiday to just show up and be fed? Has the cook prepared a way for them to help?
Hopefully, we are beyond the days of one person feeling that she or he has to do it all. It’s not realistic. But there are still people who sense a loss of control if others help, and there are still eaters who feel they have no responsibility to others or themselves for their pleasure at table.
Some of them don’t even think they should express thanks. They are the greatest losers, for by not expressing their gratitude, they give up the acknowledgment of the good in their lives. What a good holiday meal for everyone means is finding a way to understand each other’s needs and to give a little—time, companionship, help—to make everyone feel loved. This is the way we will learn to feed the world.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
This is my favorite stock. Browned turkey wings and neck pieces provide a good base, resulting in a full-flavored stock that is more practical for me than chicken stock, but I use both. At holiday time, I always make a stock from browned wings and necks. I cool and then freeze it for later. The browned bones and flesh produce a beautiful amber-colored stock. It is very useful for extra gravy, dressings, and soups. Gravy made from turkey stock is substantially earthier and more succulent than chicken or many other stocks. The more the bones are chopped, the more natural gelatin will be in the stock.
Makes 2 quarts
3 pounds turkey wings, backs, necks, or other pieces
1 medium onion, thickly sliced, including brown peel
1 large carrot, thickly sliced
1 celery rib, thickly sliced, optional
3–4 parsley stalks, optional
¼ cup mushroom stems, optional
6 black peppercorns, optional
1 bay leaf
¼ teaspoon dried thyme
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Using a meat cleaver, chop the turkey meat and bones into smaller pieces. Move the turkey pieces, onion, carrot, and optional ingredients to a heavy rimmed baking sheet and into the oven. Roast, turning occasionally. Smaller pieces will brown more quickly, so remove them as they turn a very dark brown with perhaps a small touch of black. This will take approximately 30 to 45 minutes.
Move the turkey bones and meat and all other ingredients to a deep stockpot or saucepan. Add bay leaf and thyme. Add 1/2 cup water to the roasting pan. Bring to the boil over medium heat, deglazing the pan (scraping brown bits from the bottom and sides; it’s also a good way to clean the pan). Pour into the pot of bones and meat, along with enough water to cover the ingredients. Bring to the boil over high heat then reduce the heat to low and simmer for about 2 hours, adding water as needed to keep the wings covered.
Strain the stock through a fine mesh strainer or a colander lined with dampened cheesecloth, pressing the solids to release all of the juices and extract their flavor. Cool the stock and refrigerate several hours or overnight. When cold, skim off all the fat that has risen to the surface. The stock can be refrigerated up to 3 days, or it can be frozen, using containers of a size that will accommodate future needs, such as 1-quart freezer bags or containers.
There are a number of ways to remove fat formed on the top of food:
• While cooking, move the pan and tilt it slightly to allow all the fat and any scum to gather together at one place, making it easier to skim or spoon off.
• Run strips of paper towel over the top of the liquid. The fat on top will come off with the towel.
• Hold an ice cube and slide it over the top of the liquid. The fat will congeal on the outside of the cube.
• Use a special cup with a pouring spout located near the bottom of the cup; the fat will remain in the cup as the degreased portion of the sauce is poured out.
• Chill. The fat will come to the top and congeal, ready to be scooped off.
Cynthia’s Grilled Beef Tenderloin
Tenderloin is miraculous in its expansiveness. It is lovely roasted whole and then sliced thickly as a main course for a sit-down meal. Or, for a cocktail party, split in half lengthwise before roasting, and sliced thinly to serve with small rolls. I’ve had people stand around the platter sopping up the juices with the extra rolls. That’s okay, too. It’s named after Cynthia because it is what I cooked for her and Cliff’s engagement supper. It was an early summer evening with just the right weather, as well as a pool reflecting the lights and a full moon. It was a perfect night—just what every bride wants for that special party.
Serves 8 to 10, or 20 to 25 at a buffet
1 beef tenderloin (about 3 1/2–5 pounds), stripped of silver skin, fat, and gristle, and chain removed
2 cups low sodium soy sauce or tamari
2/3 cup dark sesame oil
6 large garlic cloves, chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh ginger
Move the tenderloin to a ziplock plastic bag or container. Whisk together the soy sauce, oil, garlic, and ginger, and pour half of the marinade over the tenderloin. (If using a bag, fit inside a second bag facing the opposite direction to prevent leakage). Reserve the remaining marinade for the sauce in a separate container. Marinate the beef in the container in the refrigerator. Marinating for 1 hour is sufficient if you are in a rush, but I frequently marinate this overnight, or at least by morning for serving that evening. Much longer, however, will not help and will perhaps make the meat too soft.
Prepare a charcoal grill, if using, or preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Remove the tenderloin from the refrigerator 1 hour before cooking. Move to a preheated charcoal grill over low fire, covered, or place on a foil-lined roasting pan in the preheated oven. Cook, turning occasionally to brown all over, until the meat registers 125 degrees on an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the tenderloin, about 30–45 minutes depending on thickness. Remove from heat and let rest before serving.
While the meat rests, add the reserved marinade to the pan drippings and bring to the boil, scraping the pan. Remove any excess fat. Slice meat and serve with sauce. The tenderloin may be roasted ahead and reheated. Serve hot or cold.
Tenderloin
Tenderloin is sold both untrimmed and trimmed and peeled. The average untrimmed beef tenderloin is 7 to 9 pounds, including the butt and 3/4 inches of fat and membrane as well as the ”chain.” One third of the weight is lost when fat and chain are removed. Peeled tenders originally weigh 5 to 7 pounds and are then sold trimmed at 3 1/2 to 4 pounds. There is very little price savings when buying trimmed (peeled) vs. untrimmed tenderloin when all calculations are finished, so buy the best thing for convenience. The difference in size of tenderloins and the unknown amount of fat (some are also sold partially trimmed) makes it difficult to do a price comparison. If possible, get the butcher to trim it; be sure, however, to ask for the chain.
Beef Tenderloin Stuffed with Mushroom & Spinach Duxelles
A tenderloin brings a lot to the table, even though it is an expensive cut of meat because it can serve a crowd and become as expansive as a less expensive cut. It can be served thick or thin for a posh dinner party, a casual outdoor buffet, or for rolls at a cocktail party. Tenderloin is indestructible unless overcooked and even then is salvageable. Stuffed, it brings cachet. A good meat thermometer relieves much of the anxiety surrounding cooking an expensive cut of meat. Serve this tenderloin with either Romesco Sauce (pictured), or with Aïoli if desired.
Serves 8 to 10, or 20 to 25 at a buffet
1 beef tenderloin (about 3 1/2–5 pounds), stripped of silver skin, fat, and gristle, and chain removed
Freshly ground black pepper
1 recipe Duxelles, below
2 tablespoons oil, cook’s preference, divided
Romesco Sauce, optional
Duxelles:
1 pint grape tomatoes, halved
1 tablespoon oil, cook’s preference
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 garlic cloves
8 ounces fresh mushrooms, such as shiitake or cremini, tough stems removed
4 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup finely chopped shallots (from 2 large or 4 small shallots)
4 cups fresh spinach, chopped, or 5 ounces frozen chopped spinach, defrosted and well drained
3/4 cup grated Comté cheese
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Prepare the meat for stuffing by opening it up. If the tenderloin still has the “butt” end attached, use a long sharp knife and follow the line of fat to separate the butt from the rest of the tenderloin (there is a “line” of fat in the meat that is easy to follow). This can be rolled and roasted alongside the tenderloin. Prepare the remaining as follows: Cut the tenderloin lengthwise down the center, leaving a hinge in the middle so as to open like a book. With the knife parallel to the cutting board, slice the meat carefully in half from the middle of the meat out toward to the side, again leaving a hinge. Repeat on the opposite side. Now there are three parallel hinges making one wide piece of meat. Cover with plastic wrap and pound to become a uniform piece of meat about 1 inch thick.
To make Duxelles, toss tomatoes with 1 tablespoon oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast in preheated oven until soft, about 8 minutes. Remove and allow to cool.
Chop the garlic and mushrooms in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade. Pulse until very finely chopped. Melt the butter in a large skillet. Add shallots and cook until soft, 2 to 3 minutes. Add mushroom mixture and cook until all the liquid has evaporated and mushrooms are tender, about 8 minutes. Add chopped spinach and allow to wilt, stirring until evenly combined. Transfer to a bowl and allow to cool. Stir in cheese and cooled tomatoes.
Cover the open meat with an even layer of the duxelles mixture. Roll the beef, starting from one side and continuing to the other. Tie securely with butcher’s twine. This can be done up to 24 hours in advance.
When ready to cook, bring to room temperature and rub with 2 tablespoons oil. Move the meat to a roasting pan and cook in preheated oven until a meat thermometer registers 125–130 degrees, about 30 to 45 minutes. Season immediately with salt and pepper. If serving hot, remove and let sit 10 minutes before slicing to desired thickness. If serving cold, refrigerating before slicing makes the slicing easier.
This is a sauce I made frequently in Majorca and always thought it was from there, only to find out that it is Mediterranean and usually thought to be Italian. Anyplace with abundant almonds can claim it, serving it with meat, fish, or vegetables or stirring a bit into soups, stews, and even vegetables.
Makes 2 cups
3 red bell peppers (or substitute jarred roasted red peppers)
1/2 cup whole almonds
4–5 garlic cloves
1/2 cup panko breadcrumbs
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
Salt
1/4–1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
Roast the red bell peppers on the grill or under the broiler, very close to the heat, turning often until charred all over, nearly black. Remove and place in a plastic bag to steam off skin. When cool enough to handle, remove charred skin and seed the peppers. (If using jarred roasted peppers, skip to the next step.)
Toast the almonds in a dry skillet over medium-low heat until golden; watch carefully so as not to burn them. Remove to a bowl. Add whole garlic cloves to the skillet and toast until lightly golden brown.
Place roasted peppers, almonds, garlic, panko, sherry vinegar, and a pinch of salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade. Purée 60 to 90 seconds, until well combined. With the motor running, slowly stream in the olive oil until it is emulsified and a sauce consistency forms, though it will not get completely smooth. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Cover and chill at least 30 minutes before serving to allow the flavors to marry.
When I think of Republicans, I think of my grandmother’s pot roast sandwiches at the time of the great 1952 Republican National Convention, when my grandmother had come to stay with us. A devout religious woman who knew God was not an old man in the sky, she nonetheless could not shake the opinion that God was a Republican.
Grandmother was so riveted by politics and news that the television was on all the time, day and night. Our new television was enshrined in the middle of the living room, and for the first time we were allowed to not only eat in front of the television but also stay up later than our bedtime to watch the convention.
The morning of the nomination for the Republican candidate, she got up in the cool of the morning and put on the pot roast, turning and browning it in hot fat. The night before (a hot night that was also a late night for television), she had started some homemade bread, leaving it to rise in the cool basement. She knocked it down and shaped it, letting it double again as the meat was browning, and then baked it. The smell of baking bread was added to the tantalizing smells of cooking meat when we came down for our oatmeal.
Grandmother was a wizard with the lowly potato and boiled up a batch of them, some to be put in to finish with the juices of the pot roast, some for later. All day we sniffed that meat and the lingering smell of baked bread emanating from the loaves put out to cool on the racks in the tiny kitchen.
She called her candidate “Mr. Republican.” He was Senator Robert Taft, the son of the 27th President of the United States, William Howard Taft. He was in contention for the nomination against General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who had flirted briefly with the Democrats and wasn’t even, to my grandmother’s way of thinking, a Republican for sure.
My grandmother had supported Taft for three elections. He ran for president in 1940, 1948, and 1952, losing each time. She hated Thomas Dewey, his opponent in 1948, as much as she had hated Franklin Delano Roosevelt—and she was so convinced of the rightness and reason of the Republican party’s political stance that she couldn’t even bear the names of the Democrats. I vaguely remember as a younger child watching a parade or commemorative service for the dead president Franklin Delano Roosevelt, but I didn’t understand the politics. I thought they were saying a rose was dead, and I started to cry. My grandmother yanked my hand and pulled me away from the scene of activity, sniffing, “Pretty names don’t make pretty people.” She also said that Truman’s name was a lie—he wasn’t a “true man.” A Democrat could do no good.
The convention of 1952 was a spellbinder. We sat in front of that television until long into the night, watching the black-and-white figures parade up and down, hearing the state roll calls, and keeping count on a sheet provided by the newspaper so you could tally up the votes. It was endless—and tense. The world was watching. Sometime during the night, we ate thick sandwiches of pot roast and slices of buttered bread and drank Grandmother’s famous iced tea. We were engrossed with the drama and power of a televised convention played out in front of our eyes. We became part of the ground of politics.
It was hot, beastly hot, I remember. We had no air conditioners then—did anyone?—and the screened windows and doors were wide open. Finally, at the end, General Eisenhower, to Grandmother’s indignation, won a narrow victory over Taft, and my grandmother knew her candidate would never be president.
She knew she couldn’t sleep, between the heat and her sorrow. Nor could we, hyper with the activity long past our bedtime. She took cold potatoes and sliced them, making us a potato sandwich with the fresh bread, using plenty of salt and pepper. Then she took our sheets and pillows out to the front lawn and spread them out. We lay under the stars and ate our picnic sandwiches as she talked to us about the rightness of the world and God’s sorrow with the Republicans. At dawn she woke us so the neighbors wouldn’t see us camping out, and made us breakfast of bread dipped in sugar and milk.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
Lemon-Lime Pot Roast with Tomatoes & Garlic
When we made this while taping the TV series at Georgia Public TV, the all-male crew oohed and aahed. Unfortunately, we spilled the leftover sauce onto the floor as we cleared the set. It took the top layer of the stain off the cement floor. So be judicious about the amount of the citrus juices; size matters, even with lemons and limes.
Serves 4 to 6
1 (2- to- 3-pound) chuck, round, or sirloin tip roast
4 garlic cloves, chopped
Grated rind and juice of 2 or 3 limes, no white attached, divided
Grated rind and juice of 2 lemons, no white attached, divided
4 tablespoons bacon fat or drippings, or oil, cook’s preference
1 1/2 cups beef stock or broth
1 (14 1/2-ounce) can diced tomatoes with juice
Pinch of sugar, optional
1–2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1–3 tablespoons chopped marjoram, lemon thyme, or other fresh herbs, optional
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Remove any tough pieces of fat or sinew from the roast.
Mash the garlic together with 1 tablespoon of each of the grated rinds and rub over the meat. Move the meat to a plastic ziplock bag or covered container. Add 2 to 3 tablespoons of the citrus juices to the bag and marinate 1 to 8 hours in the refrigerator, turning occasionally. Set remaining citrus juices aside.
Remove the meat, reserving the marinade, and pat dry with a paper towel. Heat the drippings or oil over medium-high heat in a large Dutch oven. Add the meat and brown on one side. When mahogany brown, turn and brown on second side. Continue until all sides are browned. Remove the meat and set aside. Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat, if desired.
Add the stock, reserved marinade, and tomatoes to the pan, and bring to the boil; boil for 1 or 2 minutes. Taste and add a pinch of sugar if necessary. Reduce the heat to a simmer and add the meat back to the pot. Cover with foil then a lid, and cook covered until the meat is tender, 1 1/2 to 2 hours on the stovetop or in a 350-degree oven.
Remove the roast and allow to cool. Remove any obvious fat from the top of the sauce. Bring to the boil and boil until thick, about 15 minutes. If possible, chill to remove all the fat when it comes to the top (preferably after sitting overnight).
Slice the cold meat and return it to the sauce. When ready to eat, add herbs, season to taste with remaining lime and lemon juice, salt, and pepper and reheat on the stovetop. Serve hot, topped with some or all of the remaining grated rind of limes and lemons. Any extra rind can be wrapped and refrigerated or frozen, separately.
NOTE: Mashed or smashed potatoes, white rice or wild rice, or noodles make cozy beds for stews and pot roasts.
Tonight, as I scrub mussels for dinner, removing their beards, and carefully lifting them from the water so the sand is left in the sink, I remember the time when I became chef of C’an Poleta, a small country restaurant between Alcudia and Polensa, in Majorca, Spain. I had more courage than knowledge.
Having just received my Advanced Certificate from the London Cordon Bleu, I had never worked in a restaurant before and didn’t really know what I didn’t know. In fact, many years before, I had been convinced by my mother and friends that ladies didn’t work in restaurants, and so I had given up the idea.
Then, one night, I asked the owner of a restaurant in Palma, where we were living for a few months, if I could hang around in the kitchen and observe for a few nights. She agreed, and, in the way that life has, the next day I was offered a job in the country, an hour from Palma, at what was reputed to be the best restaurant on the island. The French chef had quit because there were no women for him to date there, and the female New York owners were desperate enough to hire an inexperienced young woman as chef.
The deal was that all dinners were to be by reservation only so the kitchen could accommodate my pace, which was bound to be slower than the French chef’s. But, as happens in so many restaurants, the desire for exclusivity, good food, and service was overcome by greed, and the maitre d’ took all comers, reservations or no. Mussels were on the menu the first night.
When I was attending cooking school in England, I had scrubbed and cooked up many a batch of mussels for crowds of friends, so I felt confident. Of course, those mussels had come from the market. These mussels had come directly from the ocean, but I figured they were the same.
I hadn’t reckoned on the Majorcan yellow jackets and hornets. I had assumed the windows of the kitchen were screened—after all, it’s been hot there every summer for centuries. I was wrong. There were no screens anywhere. But there were venomous flying insects. And they liked me. They liked me a lot—seven bites in ten minutes’ worth, just before we started serving.
With tears streaming down my cheeks from the bites, from frustration, from the fear of being the chef of a restaurant, I put the mussels on to cook. First I had put them in a big sink in the middle of the kitchen, covered them with ocean water, and scattered over them an oatmeal-type product to feed and plump them up before serving. The little Spanish maids who were my helpers had scrubbed them, removing their beards, and put them in the pan back in the sink in clean ocean water. I heated a pan and added the mussels. Still crying, I added salt and pepper. When their shiny black shells opened to show the sensuous flesh of the mussels inside, I sent them to the table where the proud owners sat, awaiting their first meal by their new chef.
Moments later, the two ladies who owned the restaurant stormed into the kitchen. It didn’t take long to find out the source of their wrath! Unthinkingly, I had added salt to the water, then sent the mussels to the table without tasting their broth. The broth was so salty, the owners said, a spoon would have stood up in it. (I personally think they were exaggerating. Still, it was salty enough to be nearly inedible.) I began crying in earnest now. My first job in a kitchen, and I had blown it! Partly due to the flying creatures and partly because I had forgotten all the things I’d ever learned—most importantly, to taste, taste, taste.
The owners left the kitchen. After all, they couldn’t fire me in the middle of the meal. And so we started a rocky relationship, which lasted until the season ended and our contract was up. They never did fire me, and I didn’t quit. And I never again salted mussels until I was quite sure the broth needed flavoring! But I don’t think they ever hired a novice cook again.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
Here’s a fish muddle, or stew, to dream about. It has a long list of ingredients, but that makes it easier rather than harder.
It’s written to elicit the best from the fish by adding the fish in a sequence to avoid overcooking. Cultivate your local seafood seller, for that is the best way to secure enough bones and fish scraps for a rich and flavorful broth. Since everything depends on a good broth, call a day or two ahead to reserve the fish and the bones. Hope for a fish head or two to enrich the broth. Lobster and shrimp shells are grand additions. If the bones or shells are frozen ahead of time they run a strong second to fresh but are better than none at all. The broth can be made ahead, strained, and frozen up to three months, or prepared that morning or the day ahead and refrigerated.
Making a marinade is something I learned from the Grande Diplome Cooking Course, edited by Anne Willan, and I am grateful for it. Although the croûtes are best when life is perfect and there is time to make them, store-bought are fine. The same thing is true of the sauce. Store- bought mayonnaise can be used to save time. The Pernod or anise ups the taste but doesn’t cause the broth to have a licorice flavor. The amount can be adjusted according to the broth, or white wine can be added if there is no liqueur available.
Serves 8 to 10
Broth
1–2 pounds of fish bones, heads, trimmings, etc.
Shrimp shells
1 fennel bulb, divided
2 heaping tablespoons fennel or anise seed
1–2 slices onion
1–2 garlic cloves
3 quarts water
Marinade & Soup
1/2–3/4 cup olive oil, divided
8–10 garlic cloves, finely chopped (about 1/2 cup), divided
2 tablespoons saffron threads, divided
3 pounds assorted fresh South Atlantic fish (snapper, grouper, flounder, mahi mahi, sea trout, or sheepshead)
1 pound raw shrimp, in shell
2 blue crabs, optional
3 onions, chopped
2 leeks, chopped, optional
1 pound diced fresh tomatoes or 1 (14 1/2-ounce) can tomatoes
Grated rind of 1 orange, no white attached
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 pound littleneck clams, optional
1–2 tablespoons Pernod or anise liqueur
Croûtes & Rouille
2 baguettes
3/4 cup olive oil, plus extra for croûtes
10 garlic cloves, chopped (1/2 cup)
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg yolk
Make the broth. Discard any gills and innards of the fish, as well as any skin with scales. Rinse cavity of fish. Add fish bones and skin to a large pot, as well as any shrimp shells. Remove the exterior layer of the fennel—the stalky portions coming out from the bulb—and some of the fronds. Chop the bulb and fronds and reserve, separately, for later use. Add the fennel stalks, fennel or anise seed, sliced onion, and garlic cloves and enough water to cover all the bones. Bring to the boil; reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer 20 to 25 minutes. Set aside uncovered until needed. Strain, pushing the bones enough to be sure that all the broth is used. Discard the bones. Taste the broth and adjust seasonings. It should measure 2 or 3 quarts. If less, add water. If more, bring to the boil and boil down to 3 quarts.
Meanwhile, make the marinade for the fish by mixing 6 tablespoons of olive oil and 2 tablespoons chopped garlic. Soak 1 tablespoon of the saffron threads in a couple of tablespoons hot water and add to the olive oil and garlic mixture.
Cut the 3 pounds skinned and boned fish into 2-inch cubes, keeping separate according to type and thickness. Sort out any small scraps and set aside to add last. Toss the fish in the saffron marinade and refrigerate in a plastic bag until needed. Clean the shrimp and crabs.
Heat 1/3 cup of oil over medium heat in a very large pot. Add the onions, leeks, and reserved chopped fennel bulb to the hot oil and sauté until soft, about 10 minutes, taking care not to brown. Add 5 tablespoons garlic and sauté 1 minute more. Add the tomatoes, a bunch of the reserved fennel fronds, and the orange rind. Bring the soup to the boil, reduce heat to low, and cook 10 minutes. Add the remaining saffron to a couple tablespoons of the strained broth. Add remaining broth and saffron mixture to the tomato sauce and increase heat to medium high. Bring soup to the boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer 30 to 40 minutes, until extremely flavorful. Season to taste with salt and pepper, remembering that seafood is still to be added.
Meanwhile, make the croûtes. Cut one of the baguettes into 1/2-inch slices, brush with olive oil and bake in 350- degree oven until golden brown. Cut the remaining baguette into large pieces and place in a food processor or blender to make breadcrumbs. Remove all but 1/3 cup of the breadcrumbs, saving any extra for another use. Add roughly three-fourths of the garlic to the breadcrumbs in the food processor and process until finely chopped. Add 1/2 cup of the soup broth, paprika, cayenne, salt, and egg yolk. Purée until smooth. Add the oil slowly, as you would in a mayonnaise or aïoli, and process again until smooth. Taste the mixture, add the rest of the garlic as needed, and adjust seasonings. Refrigerate covered until needed.
When ready to eat, return the soup to the boil. (If it will not cover the seafood, add enough water to cover.) Reduce the heat slightly, add the fish incrementally according to thickness, starting with the thickest pieces of fish, and cook a few minutes without letting it boil hard. Add the shrimp, crabs, and the thinner or more delicate fish, such as flounder, and cook 1 or 2 minutes in the simmering soup. Add the optional littleneck clams and any remaining scraps of fish. Cook until the shrimp and crabs are pink and the clams open. Remove all the seafood and put on a hot platter.
Season the soup with salt and pepper and Pernod or anise liqueur. Boil down quickly if necessary to increase flavor. Sprinkle fish with chopped fennel frond if desired. Serve the soup and platter of fish separately, or mix and serve together. Top croûtes with rouille and serve with soup.
It was a cold and choppy day when we set out from shore to go fishing, and if I hadn’t said I’d go, I would have stayed at home. But I was committed and making the best of it. I had dressed for the occasion with a sweatshirt and blue jeans over my bathing suit, socks up to my knees, and tennis shoes, not rubber sandals. But I wished I had galoshes.
Suddenly, after an hour of misery, the weather lifted and the motor stopped smelling so vile, and the boat stopped rocking. The sun greeted us as an old friend, tanning us with warmth and radiance above the reflected sea. With the sea and sun as our only comrades, my friend and I lolled under the clear sky, laughing and talking and reading short stories and making up limericks, giggling at the globs of protective cream on our noses and tummies. And we caught a few fish.
Most of them were small bluefish. The larger ones we either didn’t know how to catch or they weren’t coming in that close to shore. I landed my first fish at the end of the day. We packed all the fish in ice, and a willing fisherman cleaned them for a small consideration on the tiny dock. It was my time to cook, and we were eager.
When the sea and sun marry with laughter, there’s avhungry completeness that seasons the food. Coupled with the smell of sea on clothes and hair, and the pride of achievement, anticipation dances on a high wire before the meal.
I broiled my bluefish in a flat enamel plate/lid, with a little wine and butter. I was proud of my fish, my first fish, and arrogantly carried him to the table. Somehow, I slid and stumbled and my fish gently slithered out onto the floor. I nearly wept. My friend, dear soul, knew my anguish, and slipped a spatula under my fish and placed him back on the platter, saying, “We won’t eat the skin on the bottom where he touched the floor.” My tears dried on their way to my cheek, and we looked out the window at our friend the sun traveling down the sky and talked and marveled at the specialness of simple fresh fish.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
When buying a whole fish, the first thing to look for is bright, clear eyes. Next comes a clean, light odor. Snappers can be any number of fish, with thick skin and scales as large as tiddlywinks to lightly red skin and delicate, mild flesh. If in doubt, question the seller as to age and type. I like to cook fish with the head on, but if you don’t, try to save the head for fish stock. You are paying for it whether you use it or not. If snapper is not available, any light, white-fleshed fish will do. Either Aïoli or Virginia Willis’s Peanut Romesco Sauce would be a flavorful addition added atop or alongside each serving.
Serves 2 to 4
1 (2-pound) whole snapper or other whole white fish, head on, cleaned and scaled
4 tablespoons melted butter or oil, cook’s preference
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, optional
Virginia Willis’s Peanut Romesco Sauce or Aïoli Sauce, optional
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a rimmed baking sheet with heavy aluminum foil and oil it, or oil an oven-to-table baking dish. Rinse and pat the fish dry with paper towels, taking care to ensure the cavity is clean.
Make 2 to 4 diagonal slashes in the skin of the fish (top side only). Move to the prepared pan or dish and brush both sides with butter or oil. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Pour on the lemon juice, if using.
Measure the thickness of the fish from the foil to the top side of the fish at its thickest part. Roast uncovered for 9 minutes to the inch of thickness, until meat is firm to the touch and springs back. The fish is done when its thickest part registers approximately 135 degrees on an instant-read thermometer.
Slide the fish off the foil using two large spatulas or any number of fish gadgets. Peel off the skin with a knife. The top will be prettier than the bottom, so serve any guests first. Use two large implements to slide the flesh off the bone and onto the plate. When the top flesh is removed, flip over the body of the fish and serve the bottom flesh, using the same method, avoiding any bones. The cheek is regarded as particularly desirable, as it is tender and flavorful, so serve it to the most revered guest. Serve with Romesco or Aïoli, if desired.
Variations:
This sauce is one I first started making in Majorca when I was chef at a restaurant. I’d never tasted aïoli before then and didn’t know that other Mediterranean countries have a variation—allioli, different in spelling and pronunciation as well as ingredients. Aïoli also varies considerably with the type of oil used, so make sure the oil is one that will go well in the final product. Slaw, for instance, would be better with a neutral oil such as canola or other vegetable oil rather than olive oil—unless adding chopped peanuts, when peanut oil would suit better. Sometimes I mix oils, like olive oil and peanut oil.
For allioli, extra virgin olive oil is the standard. It can be used as a separate dipping sauce, as with snails, shrimp, and other small foods, or can be used as a sauce with a beef tenderloin or snapper, or even as a rouille stirred into a fish soup or bouillabaisse when a lot of cayenne pepper is used.
Makes 1 1/2 cups
4 cloves garlic
3 egg yolks
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, divided
1/4–1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
Salt
1 tablespoon water
1 1/2 cups oil, cook’s preference
Freshly ground black pepper
Cayenne pepper, to taste
Add garlic to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade. Chop finely then remove and set aside. Add egg yolks, lemon juice, mustard, salt, and 1 tablespoon water to the food processor (no need to clean it in between). Process until the egg yolks are thick and lemon-colored. (Or crush garlic in a mortar and pestle, then proceed with recipe using a whisk and a mixing bowl.)
With the food processor running, gradually add in one-third of the oil, drop by drop at first, until the mixture becomes cohesive. Continue processing, adding the remaining oil in a slow, steady stream, until mixture is thick and the oil is incorporated.
Season to taste with the remaining lemon juice, salt, black pepper, and cayenne. If a lighter mayonnaise is needed, add 1 or 2 more tablespoons water. Keep covered and refrigerated no longer than a week.
Virginia Willis’s Peanut Romesco Sauce
Virginia Willis is one of my beloved students who has surpassed me. I think her use of roasted peanuts is very clever and tasty, although the traditional nut for this recipe is almonds. This recipe is adapted from her book Secrets of the Southern Table.
Makes about 3 cups
1/2 cup roasted peanuts or almonds
1 (12-ounce) jar roasted red bell peppers, drained
1/2 cup tomato purée
3 garlic cloves, divided
1 slice country white bread, toasted and crumbled
1 tablespoon smoked paprika
1/3 cup sherry vinegar
2/3–1 cup extra virgin olive oil, divided
Coarse kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Grind the peanuts or almonds in a food processor. Add the roasted peppers, tomato purée, 2 of the garlic cloves, bread, and paprika. Process to a paste. Add the vinegar and pulse to blend. With the food processor running, gradually pour 2/3 cup of oil through the feed tube in a steady stream until the mixture thickens like mayonnaise. Taste and adjust for seasoning with salt and pepper, adding garlic and olive oil as needed. Transfer to a serving bowl if serving immediately, or store covered in the refrigerator.
She never saw a harvest moon without thinking of him and the duck that flew for them the night of a full moon. From shrimp to duck, the story of a love affair.
When he first told her he loved her, it was while eating shrimp from the Georgia coast. “You’re wonderful,” he said. The way to a man’s heart is his stomach.
He said he loved her food. She woke up planning what she wanted to feed him for dinner. She became more desperately in love as time went on, even as the relationship began to deteriorate. He was frequently late for dinner and too busy to call. Her grocery menus were frantically made, obsessive lists of things she wanted to cook for him—asparagus, roast duck, chocolate mousse. The way to a man’s heart is his stomach.
One night they made plans for dinner out. She would rather have cooked for him—to have exercised her culinary prowess. He wanted control, to be free of her food, and made reservations at a country restaurant an hour’s drive away. She decided she had to have her hair done for him so he would tell her again she was beautiful. Her hairdresser was running late and she sat in the beauty shop, trapped and full of foreboding. She arrived home and he was sitting on the doorstep, silently, angrily waiting, his control thwarted.
There was a full harvest moon, their dominant companion as they drove, with the smell of her harshly permanented, now frizzy and ugly hair filling the car. They squabbled about her being late, at the distance he was choosing to drive rather than eat her cooking. He didn’t say she was beautiful. She had to force herself to breathe through the pain in her chest.
They arrived at the allegedly romantic restaurant only to find it nearly closed, wearily patient waiters holding the dinners he had preordered. They sat alone in the empty dining room. When she cut into her duck, it was so tough it flew off the plate and slid down his starched white shirt front. Distressed, she still couldn’t suppress a grin. He said she had done it on purpose. She hadn’t, but might have if she’d thought of it. He stormed out and waited in the car. Picking the duck off the floor, she told the stunned waiter to bring the check. Her rage at her love’s rejection of all she was rippled through her physically. They had a violent fight in the light of the moon. When her hysterics abated, they drove the long way home in silence, and separated for a long time.
Ten years later, after he had married and divorced another and they were together again, she wanted him to eat a duck she had cooked herself. She took it on a trip to the mountains. They remembered that night with uneasy laughter, recalling what they might have lost. She had cooked many ducks since then with crisp-tender skins. And she always removed the backbone and ribs. One had never shot off her plate again. After all, the way to a man’s heart is his stomach.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
Cassoulet, most likely the basis for the word “casserole,” is traditionally baked in an earthenware pot and served with a gratin of breadcrumbs on the top. I use a sturdy enamel pot to make sure it doesn’t cook too rapidly. Cozy and comforting, this bean dish (field peas are part of the bean family) is always welcome for a winter party, where a cassoulet goes a long way served alongside a green salad. It takes little of the cook’s time, cooking happily by itself unattended for hours. I make it over the course of a few days, but it can be done in one day. Use a good stock. If you like, ignore some of the ingredients and their amounts, as nothing is essential. Dixie Cassoulet is easily made ahead and reaheated, or frozen and reheated.
Serves 25
2 pounds dry field peas, white acre peas, lady peas, or other small peas, or 4 to 6 pounds fresh or frozen
4 cups duck, goose, pork, or other flavorful fat
6 large onions, chopped
8 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 fennel bulb
2 quarts strong chicken, turkey, duck, or goose stock, preferably homemade
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 cup finely chopped fresh parsley, divided
1/2 cup chopped fresh thyme, divided
3 tablespoons tomato paste
3 cups white wine or chicken stock
24 sweet Italian-style sausage links, pork or turkey (about 6 pounds)
2 tablespoon coriander seeds
2 tablespoon fennel seeds
1–2 teaspoons cumin seeds
6 cups fresh breadcrumbs or panko
Prepare the beans. Defrost if frozen. Soak dried beans in water to cover overnight, or cover with water in a pan, bring to the boil, cover, and set aside for 1 hour. Drain the water before proceeding. Melt enough of the fat over medium heat in a large, heavy frying pan to cover the bottom of the pan. Add the chopped onions and cook until soft. Add garlic and cook 2 minutes more. Remove the exterior layer of the fennel—the stalky portions coming out from the bulb—and some of the fronds and set aside for another purpose. Chop the fennel bulb, add to the onions, and cook 5 or so minutes.
Add half the cooked onion, fennel, and garlic mixture and the beans to a heavy 6-quart pot, and reserve the rest in the frying pan. Cover the bean mixture with some of the stock; cover with a lid and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the beans are soft, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Check and add stock to cover as needed. When soft, taste and season well with salt and pepper. Stir in half the parsley and half the thyme.
Add the tomato paste along with the wine (or stock) to the onion-garlic mixture still in the frying pan. Bring to the boil, and boil until reduced by half, just a few minutes.
Prick the sausage on all sides. Heat a little of the duck fat over medium heat in a large frying pan. Working in batches, add sausages and sauté until brown on all sides, adding more fat as needed. Cut into bite-sized pieces and add to the tomato mixture along with half of the remaining parsley and thyme. Crush the coriander, fennel, and cumin seeds using a mortar and pestle or rolling pin. Season the tomato mixture with a portion of the crushed seeds, tasting as necessary. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.
Add a portion of the crushed seeds to the beans, along with salt and pepper to taste. Layer the beans and the tomato/sausage mixture in a large 10 to 12-quart pot, starting with a third of the beans then half of the tomato/sausage mixture. Repeat, finishing with the last third of the beans. Add stock to barely cover the beans. Bring to the boil on top of the stove, stir thoroughly and remove from heat.
Mix the breadcrumbs with remaining parsley and thyme. Layer the top of the cassoulet with a portion of the breadcrumbs. Dot generously with duck fat.
Move the pot to a rimmed baking sheet and bake in the middle of a 350-degree oven until the crumb gratin is golden brown (about 30 minutes). Push the gratin down into the beans with a large spoon. Cover again with a layer of the breadcrumb mixture. Dot with more fat. Return to oven. Repeat as often as desired, completing up to 8 gratins but no fewer than 2. Each gratin takes 30 to 60 minutes to be ready to be pushed into the beans. Be sure to taste after each gratin layer, adding any seasoning and liquid as desired. When ready, either leave in the oven to serve warm, or remove from the oven, let cool to moderate, and store covered in the refrigerator for 1 or 2 days, or freeze, until ready to use. Several hours before serving, move the cassoulet to the countertop and let come to room temperature. Move to a baking sheet and reheat 1 hour or so. The cassoulet may be frozen when cool enough, and even reheated when frozen, which will obviously take a much longer time.
Variation: If a duck or goose was roasted for its fat, add its meat to the cassoulet.
Pat Conroy’s Spinach Tortellini Salad
Pat Conroy, the South Carolina author, loved cooking and was once a student of mine, long before he moved to Italy. This was the pasta he made, and we served it to all sorts of famous people in his apartment rooftop garden in Rome, Italy, at Cynthia and Cliff’s wedding supper, on the hottest night of many years.
Serves 12
1 pound spinach tortellini stuffed with Parmesan cheese, preferably fresh
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon granulated sugar, optional
1 1/2 cups grated imported Parmesan cheese
1 cup pitted green olives, chopped
1/2 pound cooked ham, sliced in small finger-sized strips
4 tablespoons chopped fresh basil or thyme, optional
Bring large pot of generously salted water to the boil over high heat. Cook pasta until al dente, then drain.
Meanwhile, mix vinegar and mustard in a bowl. Slowly whisk in the oil. Taste for seasoning and add salt, and pepper. Correct vinegar with sugar, if needed. If kept in an airtight container, vinaigrette will stay fresh almost indefinitely in the refrigerator or in a cool room.
Toss warm pasta with Parmesan, olives, and ham then dress with vinaigrette as needed. Add salt, pepper, and optional herbs and serve warm. Can be made ahead and chilled, but bring to room temperature before serving, or reheat in microwave.
One hot, sultry July morning I woke up yearning for a melon like the ones I found for the wedding supper I had fixed July 7 in Rome, Italy, when friends decided to marry there. A perfect melon is sweet, cool, thirst-quenching, juicy, a foil for Italy’s beloved Parma ham, prosciutto. In fact, I craved not just the melon but the result of the marriage of opposites: a ripe, tender wedge of melon wrapped with the slightly salty, richly flavorful aged prosciutto, which cloaks the melon like a sheer, flesh-colored gown.
The Italian melon looks like a small cantaloupe, a bit larger than a softball, and its perfume announces its presence even before you cut it. I have never had a melon like it in the States.
I prepared this prenuptial wedding feast for beautiful Cynthia Stevens, the talented producer of my television show, who married Atlanta’s long-time bachelor Cliff Graubart. Lenore Conroy, with help from her husband, Pat, had done most of the shopping for the thirty-five people we were expecting for dinner at their home in Rome. But there was still shopping to be done, so we walked, plastic bags in hand, across the Tiber to an outdoor market. There we bought branches of fresh rosemary, bunches of basil and marjoram, Lenore sniffing, critiquing, and holding out for the very best. We searched the stalls for two more melons, holding them to our noses to be sure they were fragrant.
At another stall, the man who sold us the cherries exclaimed, “They are better than a night of love.” Seeing our reddened faces, he quickly declared he was not flirting, just telling us how good they were. Tasting one, we thought they were good, although perhaps not “that” good, but good enough to send Cliff and Cynthia on their way.
At the poultry shop we picked up the chickens, Cornish hens, and quail, all split up the backbone for us. The poultry man asked if the hens were for a very traditional Italian dish for these birds called “diablo.” “No,” we exclaimed, horrified, “for a wedding.” Fresh bread completed our task, and we trudged home loaded with sacks, stopping to re-shift our bundles on the narrow streets full of old-world charm.
When we returned, Pat was proudly boiling water for the stuffed spinach tortellini for his cold pasta salad and had already removed the pits from a mound of tiny green Italian olives. The coupling of the olives and the tortellini was aided by a salad dressing of oil and vinegar and fresh herbs in abundance as well as heaping quantities of freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano and slices of ham.
The poultry was marinated in lemon juice, which had been squeezed by the Conroys’ young daughter, then drizzled with olive oil before being roasted in the tiny oven. The birds were lovely, their skin brown and crisp and their flesh moist. All were piled in a beautiful stack and sprinkled with herbs and the reduced juices. (The oven blew its fuse twice, and we had to stop and do other things.)
We sliced heart-red tomatoes and splashed them with rich olive oil. We peeled the roasted sweet red peppers and tore them into strips to be mated with aged balsamic vinegar.
As we worked, we listened to calls through the open window from the convent next door that had been turned into a prison for men. “I want a lawyer,” wailed one man, followed by a different echo, “I want a woman.” All the time a guard paced the catwalk with his Uzi machine gun, and the birds—swallows—circled overhead with a taunt of freedom.
The inmates were blessedly silent by the time we were ready for dinner, and the sun was blushing good night as we toasted Cynthia and Cliff. Pat Conroy orated a history of their life and love, and the story was so tender it brought us to tears. We finished the evening sucking the cherries from their pits and thinking the melons, not the cherries, were really better than a night of love.
This story was originally published in Nathalie Dupree’s Matters of Taste, © 1990 by Nathalie Dupree, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. It may have been modified for this book.
One of my great pleasures has been to make pasta with some of our grandchildren when they were young. I use my pasta machine very little now but keep it on hand just in case. Now fresh pasta is readily available. If it’s not available, of course boxed fettuccine is fine to use.
Serves 4
1 lemon
1 1/2 cups dry white wine
3/4 cup heavy cream, to taste
1 pound fettuccine, preferably fresh
3 tablespoons butter, in pieces
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 to 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, optional
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Using a knife or vegetable peeler, remove rind from the lemon, avoiding any white pith. Slice the peel into thin matchsticks. Juice the lemon, strain and reserve. Place matchsticks in a large nonreactive pan with the wine and bring to the boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium high and cook until it reduces to a syrupy mixture, about 1/4 cup, about 10 minutes.
Remove from heat, pour in about 1/4 cup of the cream, and stir. Then pour in remaining cream and stir as needed. Return to stove and bring to the boil over high heat. Reduce heat and simmer until it is thickened and reduced slightly, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside. This is your cream sauce.
Meanwhile, bring large pot of generously salted water to boil. Cook pasta until al dente, save a bit of the pasta water, then drain.
Return hot pasta pot to stove. Pour in the cream sauce, butter and lemon juice, stir, then return hot drained pasta to the pan and add a few tablespoons of cooking water. Toss together and add cheese in three or four parts, tossing each to meld with sauce. Add more cooking water if sauce is too thick and crumbly. Ladle onto plates and drizzle each portion with olive oil, if using. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
