July 6, 2010
Chocolate Starter Bread
Rue des Martyrs, which shoots up from the 9th into the 18th arrondissement, is one of those typical Paris market streets that seems to defy business logic by offering no fewer than seven bread bakeries, some of them but a block from one another.
Because I live in the neighborhood, I've had the opportunity to sample the goods from (almost*) all of them, and I've been particularly impressed with the breads I've purchased from Maison Landemaine, on the eastern sidewalk: their tourte de meule (a round rustic loaf) and their baguette**, both leavened with their natural starter, are excellent, and they make a very good chocolate bread, too.
In French, the concept of chocolate bread poses a slight semantics problem, because the name pain au chocolat (literally, chocolate bread) is already taken by a much-loved member of the viennoiserie family that involves croissant dough wrapped around one or two sticks of chocolate to form a rectangular little pad. In some parts of France -- especially in the south -- this is cutely called a chocolatine.
But what we are talking about here is a regular bread dough that is flavored with cocoa powder and studded with small bits of chocolate -- an entirely different animal, one that's more to my taste. And since I'm always looking for new and delicious ideas to keep my natural starter entertained, it wasn't long before I decided to make my own.
I remembered Nancy Silverton has a recipe for chocolate cherry bread in her sourdough baking book Breads from the La Brea Bakery, so I looked it up, but hers involves sugar and butter -- she developed it to please the customers who came in wanting dessert rather than a loaf of bread -- and I wanted my dough unenriched.
Instead, I simply elaborated on the recipe I use for my sourdough baguettes, substituting cocoa powder for part of the flour and folding coarsely chopped chocolate into the dough, and making bâtard-shaped loaves. Because Nancy Silverton notes that the cocoa powder hinders the rise of the bread, I followed her lead and added a little fresh yeast to aid the action of the starter.
Aside from this addition of yeast, the technique is very similar to the one I describe in my baguette post, with an overnight fermentation for flavor and flexibility; you can refer to it for pictures of the different steps.
Because it is just bread with cocoa powder and a little dark chocolate, it is neither too rich nor too sweet for breakfast (i.e. no brick feeling in your stomach, and no sugar crash by mid-morning) and it is a luxurious treat to begin the day with, lightly toasted, and spread with butter or almond butter.
The tight crumb makes it ideal for tartines and I probably don't need to elaborate on the list of things you can spread on chocolate bread, but I will say this: raspberry jam or dulce de leche make it quite irresistible.
I like it like this, with just chopped chocolate folded in, but you could imagine endless variations, incorporating dried fruit (cherry, fig, prune), orange peel (as in this loaf) or nuts (pistachios, almonds, walnuts), or possibly replacing a little of the wheat flour with chestnut or malt flour.
This bread stays fresh for a few days, like most starter-leavened breads, but if the leftovers dry up they'll make a fine bread pudding or great breadcrumbs; they're the ones I used for the Noma-style radishes in soil I wrote about recently.
Maison Landemaine
26 rue des Martyrs, Paris 9ème
M° Notre-Dame de Lorette
+33 (0)1 40 16 03 42 / map it!
* A few of them I didn't bother to visit; sometimes a glance at the bread shelf is all it takes to form an opinion.
** Bruno Verjus shot a few videos of their baguette-making process.
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July 1, 2010
July 2010 Desktop Calendar
At the beginning of every month, I am offering C&Z; readers a new wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.
Our calendar for July is a picture of zucchini blossoms shot at Alain Passard's vegetable garden a few years ago. It was a memorable visit that inspires me to this day, and in case you missed my report then, I invite you to take a look at the post and the accompanying photo set. If you're stuck in the city this summer, perhaps they will provide a measure of refreshment.
And as far as zucchini blossoms are concerned, I've tried stuffing them in various ways and it was fine (especially when the filling involved fresh sheep's milk cheese), but really, nothing beats frying them.
Instructions to get your calendar are below.
"July 2010 Desktop Calendar" continues »
June 29, 2010
Roasted Lemon Zest Powder
Kitchen recycling is my favorite hobby.
So many food scraps can be put to good use with just a little time and flair*, and the satisfaction is immense when I feel I'm using my supplies to the max -- making chilled soup from pea pods, pesto from radish tops and croissants aux amandes from day-old croissants, using the whey from mozzarella in bread dough, parsley stems in stews, and the rinds from hard cheeses in soups.
Today's trick is one I've devised because it bothered me to toss the rinds of lemons when all I needed that day was their juice.
I got the idea from a jar of dried, roasted and ground lemon peel I bought years ago, made by a Sicilian company and simply sold under the name buccia di limone (lemon peel).
The scent and flavor were so lovely it took me years to go through that little container -- it was not cheap, and I seem to have trouble using up ingredients I perceive as rare and precious -- until I finally got my act together and realized I could just make my own.
The process is simple: before I juice the lemons, I peel off ribbons of the zest with a vegetable peeler. I leave those out to dry completely for a day or two, then roast them gently in the oven before grinding them with a mortar and pestle, a step that's rewarded by a fantastic tarte au citron smell.
Because I usually make a small batch and the whole idea is to be thrifty, I place the ribbons of lemon zest in my oven while I preheat it for something else: this means they're exposed to a moderate heat, but it also means they need to be kept on a close watch until they reach the proper shade of golden brown.
What you get is a fragrant powder that doesn't pack the punch of fresh zest, but makes up for it with a toasted dimension that pulls it toward the sweet. It can be used to flavor scones and butter cookies, mixed into a fruit crisp topping or granola, infused in cream or milk for crème brûlée or gelato, sprinkled over a fruit salad (think nectarines and raspberries), blended with sugar to make lemon sugar or with tea to make lemon tea, combined with other flavorings in a rub for meat or fish... the possibilities are endless.
In fact, roasted lemon zest powder can be used in pretty much any recipe that call for fresh -- I'm trying to find an exception but I can't think of one -- and I suggest substituting it measure for measure then.
And once you've peeled the zest for this, and juiced the lemons for whatever reason you had to buy them in the first place, the rest of the rind can be placed in your water pitcher for a day or two, where it will release a faint and refreshing citrusy flavor.
Naturally, this method could be applied to any other citrus fruit.
* For more on that topic, check out C&Z; readers' tips for a green kitchen, including suggestions on how to reduce food waste.
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June 25, 2010
How To Tell When Meat Is Done
A few weeks ago, I read Tara Austen Weaver's book The Butcher and the Vegetarian, a memoir in which she writes about being brought up as a vegetarian and the challenges she faced as an adult, when she had to start cooking meat for herself to try to recover from a serious health issue.
It's a very good read, witty and honest, and even for readers like me, who don't share her dietary background or meat-handling angst, there are a lot of elements to relate to in her story. I especially enjoyed the sections where she addresses the political and ethical sides of the meat question in a remarkably level and dispassionate way.
A number of things she wrote stayed with me after I'd turned the last page, but there is one short passage in particular, early on in the book (p.31), in which her brother gives a technique for testing the doneness of red meat. It's a small thing, but I liked the tip so much I thought I would, in turn, share it with you:
"How To Tell When Meat Is Done" continues »
June 22, 2010
Pasta with Tetragon
My first brush with tetragon -- a.k.a. New Zealand spinach, warrigal greens, sea spinach, and a few assorted nicknames -- took place six years ago: Nicolas Vagnon, the chef of the now long defunct La Table de Lucullus, had invited me to join him on his Saturday morning market run at the marché des Batignolles and hang out in his teeny kitchen afterward, watching him cook for the handful of customers who had come to lunch that day.
Among the things he bought and prepared was an alien-looking plant with diamond-shaped leaves attached to thick stalks. It and I were properly introduced: "Tétragone, meet Clotilde. Clotilde, meet Tétragone -- it's a little bit like spinach."
Tetragon leaves are in fact more succulent -- thicker, juicier -- than spinach, and for someone like me who still hasn't managed to get over a fierce childhood dislike for spinach, it is superior: it tastes green and marine (iodé, as we say in French, like the seaside air, or oysters) but without the bitter metallic aftertaste that bothers me so much in spinach.
Nicolas served it raw that day, drizzled with an olive oil dressing and paired with thinly fileted marinated sardines (see picture below, circa July 2004). And raw is definitely the way to go if the tetragon is young and its leaves spry; it pairs well with fish or shellfish then, but also with cured ham or burrata, and fresh almonds.
What I do is pluck the leaves off the stalk before I discard it, only retaining the upper part, where it becomes tender. Small sprouting clusters of what would have been more leaves are tipped into the salad bowl as well.
But sometimes you get a bouquet of slightly older tetragon (old tetragon should be avoided altogether) and find that, while the top leaves are delicate enough to be eaten raw, the ones on lower floors have toughened and feel scratchy in the back of your throat. It is preferable to cook those.
You can handle tetragon in much the same way you would spinach, keeping in mind that it is a pity to overcook it, even more so than other greens, because you want to retain a slight crispness in the leaves.
Among the things I've tried and loved, I'll mention adding tetragon leaves on top of a pizza just out of the oven so it will cook in the steam, and this pasta recipe.
It is a sort of variation on the orecchiette alla barese (orecchiette in the style of Bari) that Guillaume Long got from Laura Zavan's book Ma Little Italie and illustrated on his brilliant blog, and which I learned about by way of Patoumi's enthusiastic report.
I was once (just once) able to score the elusive cime di rapa that this recipe calls for (broccoli can be substituted) and I loved the result. The technique stuck with me, and I have since applied the same succession of steps to a variety of short pasta shapes and green vegetables.
It's simple, really, and as quick as pasta gets: while the pasta boils, you cook some garlic, chili pepper and anchovies with olive oil in a skillet. Depending on the vegetable you're using and how much cooking it requires, you either add it to the pasta water or to the skillet. When the pasta is cooked, you add it to the skillet, stir gently over low heat to combine, and serve with a good grating of cheese.
You may have noticed in the top photo that the strands of parmesan are fairly thick: I like to use the large holes in the box grater, because the cheese melts more slowly then and contributes its own texture.
Finally, I'd like to stress the importance of serving pasta in warmed pasta bowls. Eating lukewarm pasta ruins the experience for me, so I boil a little more water in the kettle than I'll need for the pasta, pour a shallow layer of that remaining hot water in each bowl when the pasta's almost done, and (important not to forget) pour out the water just before serving.
Note: I never knew this, but tetragon contains oxalic acid, which some sources say should be removed by blanching the leaves before using (the excess oxalic acid will transfer to the water that you'll discard). Other sources suggest this is only necessary if you are sensitive to oxalic acid, if you're dealing with wild plants or old leaves, or if you're eating tetragon on a frequent basis. If you're worried about it, discuss it with your doctor, and possibly with the vendor who sells you the tetragon.
"Pasta with Tetragon" continues »
June 17, 2010
[Edible Idiom] Tourner au vinaigre
Vinegar barrels photographed by Rebecca Bollwitt.
This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.
This week's expression is, "Tourner au vinaigre."
Literally translated as, "turning to vinegar," it describes a situation or a conversation that's taking a bad turn and may get ugly. It can be likened to its English cousin "going (or turning) sour."
Example: "Il a vite changé de sujet avant que la discussion tourne au vinaigre." "He quickly changed the subject before the discussion turned to vinegar."
Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:
"[Edible Idiom] Tourner au vinaigre" continues »
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