Comfort Angles

Comfort Zone Food

I've never really seen the attraction of backyard grilling. Oh, grilling has charms I understand, but I prefer cooking indoors. I keep all my cooking equipment and supplies—to say nothing of the food—in the kitchen. Grilling outdoors involves carting all that stuff outside and setting up a makeshift alternate kitchen. I've known dedicated backyard grillers who actually do have a second kitchen out by the grill: tables, cutting boards, knife blocks, even a second refrigerator. Great, but they still have to contend with the vagaries of weather, and dinner time for us coincides a bit too precisely with dinner time for the mosquitoes.

Generally, I'd rather stay inside and cook.

My ex-wife didn't see it that way. As far as she was concerned, if the weather allowed, I should be cooking over charcoal. Occasionally, I managed to talk my way out of grilling on the patio; usually, I did not. She had a tendency to read any disagreement as a deliberate assault, and I didn't want her to think I was refusing to grill her dinner just to spite her. What can I say? I'm an appeaser.

I remember one such appeasement twenty-one years ago. My daughter, then seven, was still living with us. My ex's son, then just turned eight, had come to visit. Miss Charcoal wanted rib-eye and so did her eldest (my ex's eleven-year-old daughter was also living with us at the time), the younger two wanted hot dogs. The eight-year-old initially said he wanted a hamburger, but when he learned that I would be grilling it and not picking one up from Burger King, he changed his mind.

Now, naturally, since hot dogs are composed of pre-cooked meat and similar substances, they finish up on the grill in a matter of seconds. I started the steaks, turned them when the texture was right and then went in to get the hot dogs. The two little ones—arguing amongst themselves under the swing set—saw me go inside, return with a small plate of wieners, and lay them out on the grill. Immediately, I was besieged by two screeching little harpies yelling that I was ruining their hot dogs and that I was Doing It Wrong and that they were not going to eat anything coming off the grill.

"Whoa. Slow down. What the hell are you two talking about?"

"You'll burn 'em," said the boy. "I'm not eating any burnt stuff."

"You're supposed to put it in the microwave," said the girl.

I shrugged them both off. "Nonsense. They won't be burnt, and they'll taste better this way. Coming out of the microwave they taste like plastic." I opened the lid of the grill and retrieved the slightly browned wieners with my tongs, holding up the last one. "See? No black stuff."

The boy pointed to a blistered patch on the side of the wiener, "What about that?"

"What about it? It isn't black."

"It's nasty," said the girl. "I'm not going to eat that."

Both of the little darlings continued to protest. My daughter not only refused to eat the grilled dogs, she wouldn't touch or even look at the grilled dogs. Eventually, I convinced the boy to taste at least a bite. Technically, I don't think I can say he actually tasted it. Pouting, he prepared a hot dog (on a bun with catsup, mustard, and relish) and then bit into the very last quarter-inch of the wiener. Before his teeth could even pass beyond the outer skin, he threw the thing to the ground, spitting and wiping his mouth even before his little hot dog bomb exploded against the concrete, sending condiment shrapnel every which way (but mostly all over my pants).

"It's yucky."

I promptly went inside to inform his mother (1) that the steaks would be finished in the short time it would take for me to change clothes, and (2) that her son was about to die a horrible screaming death.

Everything eventually worked out peacefully. The boy's mother put him to work cleaning up his hot dog strafe (at which, being eight, he did a thoroughly half-assed job), and I microwaved a couple of wieners for the kids.

The kids are adults now, and both excuse the whole incident with, "pssh, I was a little kid." Many others have offered the same explanation over the years. "They were little kids." So, kids don't have a palate? I'm pretty sure I would eat just about anything when I was eight. Not that I would have wanted the hot dog either, mind. I'd have wanted a steak. No, I don't believe their taste buds were unformed at that age.

I think, at the time, the problem was that both kids ate hot dogs—a lot of hot dogs—toxic levels of nitrates worth of hot dogs. The little monkeys had unassailable expectations. The boy was just visiting. He lived with his father, who didn't do much cooking. Microwaved hot dogs were a staple in his diet. My daughter, who was raised primarily by my mother (long, weird story), was the most finicky eater I have ever known. Hot dogs and pizza cheese constituted 99% of her protein intake. What I didn't understand when I put those wieners on that grill was that, for both of the kids, the microwaved wiener was for them a key element of a comfort food item. For each of those kids, the term hot dog meant specifically a white-bread hot dog bun, a microwaved wiener, catsup, and yellow mustard. The boy also wanted relish. Both kids, I would later learn, were equally put off by any and all substitutions: no wheat rolls, no barbecue sauce, no Dijon mustard. I think they would have balked if the buns weren't stale enough.

One difficult aspect of cooking for anyone is that you are dealing with likes and dislikes, and while most folks can tell you exactly what they do and do not like about any given movie, song, or politician, they're more often than not clueless as to why they dislike most foods. Ask why they don't like a dish, and if the response is anything but a sour face and a bleah, the answer most will give is "I just don't."

One overriding prejudice in this regard is the comfort food category. As exemplified by my kids and their microwaved dogs and acidy yellow mustard, most comfort food prejudices are more matter of familiarity than of taste. Take the simple example of macaroni-and-cheese. Yes, a gruyere-basil-cream sauce on fettuccine would probably taste much better than elbow macaroni in pasteurized processed cheese food product thinned with milk, but to someone who grew up with mac-and-cheese as a staple Sunday lunch item (or, in the South, a staple holiday meal item), the latter is likely to look more appealing under certain circumstances. Yes, crazy as it may sound to a dedicated foodie, some folks in some applications will actually choose thick, dry pasta with imitation cheese rather than fresh-rolled pasta with a fine aged Swiss cheese. Sad, but such is the power of memory.

Usually, comfort food is not the kind of dish you want when you're celebrating a promotion, a holiday, or a birth. Comfort food is what you want when you don't get the promotion you were sure was yours. Comfort food is what you're likely to crave when you're dumped, when you hear that an old friend has a terminal illness, or when a Republican is elected President of the United States. The purpose of comfort food is nostalgia—to put you in a better mental place by transporting you back to a time when you were at peace.

The nostalgia effect is both good news and bad news for the cook. It's good news because, once you know how to make a comfort food dish, it won't require any special effort to recreate, and your diners will be joyous and grateful. It's bad news because, if you don't know the right recipe, you might have a hell of a hard time working it out. You may never work it out. For some diners, comfort food has to be note perfect, or they just won't eat it. I went through this kind of trial several years ago, trying to make mashed potatoes for a friend the way her mother made it. We finally got it right after a dozen tries but only when I figured out that what she had assumed was nutmeg had actually been mace. Lucky guess.

Even more exasperating, the nostalgia-effect of comfort food acts as a restraint. Some folks are willing to accept minor changes, enhancements, but most are not. Even if your diners are willing to accept changes to their pasta sauces, for example, they will usually have limits to how much change they're willing to tolerate. Fresh onions are a must, and they have to be caramelized, or onions are utterly taboo. Garlic, sliced cellophane-thin and sautéed in extra virgin olive oil, or garlic roasted and mashed, or garlic powder. Peppers are mandatory or verboten. The sauce must be savory unless Grandmama always added a half-cup of sugar. Tomatoes must be roasted, stewed, a particular brand of canned purée, or fortified with sun-dried. Yes, good luck finding those limits.

Classics and Comfort

Once upon a time, you only heard the term comfort food applied to starchy low-brow dishes: spaghetti with meatballs, meatloaf, grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, mashed potatoes, macaroni-and-cheese, chicken-fried steak. The term can, however, be more broadly applied to any dish that any family was likely to serve frequently. Couple that attitude with a more international view of food, and you can come up with a vast array of dishes. Everything from paella and bulgoki to steak frites and Welsh rarebit. In my home it's chicken tacos, Thai crab soup, chicken piccata, and arroz con pollo. For Princess V and Girtzik, it's pastina in chicken broth.

Chicken piccata (originally veal piccata until veal was deemed Evil in much of the US) is a classic preparation: delicate breaded cutlets, lemony sauce with artichoke hearts, capers, and a light pasta. I can taste it just at the mention of the name. If you haven't seen a piccata in a while, keep your eyes open. The recent trend toward capturing comfort foods in haute cuisine (haven't noticed? really? how many high-end restaurants do you know that now serve grits, mashed potatoes, or both?) has also begun to turn to classic preparations of yesteryear: chicken à la king, turkey tetrazzini, steak au poivre, pot roast, even meatloaf are making a comeback. I know this because I not only see them showing up on fancy new restaurants but also because I keep seeing references to them on cooking programs and cooking competition programs.

In recent weeks, I've seen four such references to steak au poivre and the American derivative, pepper-crusted steak. After the most recent one, I decided it had been too long since I last prepared a steak au poivre. That coupled with Girltzik's recent plea for bison convinced me to give it a shot.

Steak au poivre relies on peppercorns and butter to enhance the beefiness of strip loin steak. Bison already tastes like intensified beef. Bison steak au poivre seemed like a no-brainer: beef squared. Just to be certain, though, I decided to pair the bison with scallops. The traditional surf-and-turf, I know, is filet and lobster. I love lobster, but I think scallops are a better pairing.

It was the best meal I've had in weeks.

Bison Steak au Poivre with Pan Roasted Thai Red Curry Potatoes and Seared Scallop Disks on Braised Leeks Dijonnaise

(serves three)

steak
one pound bison strip loin (1.5" thick)
three tablespoons cracked black pepper
six tablespoons butter (four tablespoons cut into half-inch cubes)
kosher salt
one tablespoon peanut oil
one shallot, minced
one cup Amontillado sherry

potatoes
one half-pound red potatoes
salt
one tablespoon peanut oil
juice of one lime
one teaspoon Thai red curry paste

leeks
one cup julienned leeks
one cup chicken stock
one half-cup white wine
one tablespoon Dijon mustard
one quarter cup chopped garlic greens
salt

seared scallops
three U-10 scallops halved (in disks)
one tablespoon olive oil
kosher salt

quality of ingredients

Bison is lower in fat than beef, and that's fortunate because bison fat is funky. It's not as foul-smelling as lamb fat, but it definitely does not have the inherent sweetness of beef tallow. The meat is darker than beef—almost purple. Don't worry about marbling. You won't find much. Even in beef, strip loin (New York strip) is a pretty lean cut. If you can't find bison, find a good New York strip.

This recipe demands freshly cracked black pepper. Accept no substitutes. The magically sweet, chocolaty flavor of seared pepper and steak depends on a two step process. The first step, heating the cracked peppercorns in butter and then allowing them to cool, converts much of the piperine (the source of heat) into piperdine, an amine with a similar structure to the principal flavor agents in chocolate. The second phase, searing, releases those amines and some other volatiles. So, you want as high a concentration of piperine as possible. White pepper contains less piperine than black, and pre-cracked pepper gradually loses both volatiles and piperine. In short, buy whole black peppercorns and crack your own.

Real butter, unsalted. Nothing else will work.

Shallots are a traditional ingredient in the pan sauce for a steak au poivre. Some will tell you that a bit of onion and garlic can act as a substitute, but they really don't taste the same. Shallots are decidedly sweeter and have a faint but distinct something different (a molasses note?).

I used Amontillado, but cognac, brandy, or dry vermouth also yield excellent pan sauces.

For the pan-roasted potatoes, small Yukon golds or gold fingerlings are also good. I tried purple Peruvians this way once. Bleah.

I've gotten lazy about Thai curry pastes. I used to make my own, but Thai Kitchen makes excellent green and red pastes, so I just keep a jar of each on hand.

As I've said before, always select leeks with the largest possible white portions—at least three inches.

Every Dijon mustard I've tried tastes quite a bit different from every other. My favorite is Grey Poupon, which has a richness lacking in most.

Scallops for searing should be intact and not marinating in their own juices. If they're labelled previously frozen, an hour before cooking, cover both sides of the scallops with a layer of kosher salt and allow the liquor to leach out. Every fifteen minutes, pat the scallops dry and replace any salt that wipes off.

I love extra-virgin olive oil, and I frequently pooh-pooh so-called experts who say not to cook with it because the rich olive flavor is lost or overwhelms whatever it's cooking. I prefer extra-virgin for some applications (eggs, for example). For searing scallops, however, extra-virgin olive has far too low a smoke point for searing anything. Use a good olive oil.

preparation notes

Roughly crack the peppercorns with a heavy skillet or rolling pin. Be aware that doing this on a wooden cutting board or with a wooden rolling pin, will result in dimples on the wood. Over a medium flame, heat two tablespoons of butter to foaming. Add in the cracked peppercorns, turn down the flame to low, and simmer the pepper in the butter for five minutes. Do not let the butter brown. Remove the pan of peppercorns to a trivet to cool for five minutes. Push the peppercorns together in a single layer.

Trim the bison strip and cut it into thirds. Press the three pieces down onto the peppercorns. Place a plate atop the steaks and press them down onto the peppercorns, and leave them to soak up the butter for at least thirty minutes.

Blanch the potatoes for eight minutes in boiling salted water. Strain out the liquid and spray the potatoes down with cold water to halt the cooking. Let them rest in the strainer or colander for five minutes to dry. In a sauté pan, heat the peanut oil to smoking and add in the potatoes. Turn all of the potato quarters so that a flat side is down, and allow them to fry, unmolested, until brown (three to five minutes). Tip each quarter so that the other flat side is down and fry the potatoes until that side is also brown. Combine the curry paste and lime juice and stir it to break up the paste. Pour the curry and lime mix into the potatoes and sauté them vigorously to coat the potatoes uniformly. Be warned, the steam coming off of the potatoes during this last phase plays hell with your sinuses (although the girls in the next room frequently remark on how delightful they think the aroma at a safe distance). Remove the potatoes to a serving bowl and tent them with foil to keep them warm.

Preheat the oven to 275F.

Bring the chicken stock, white wine, and Dijon mustard to a boil. Add the leeks to the boiling liquid and reduce heat to a simmer. Simmer the leeks for ten minutes. Turn off the flame and add the garlic greens and salt if necessary. Allow the vegetables to stand for ten minutes in the braising liquid. Pour off the liquid or pluck the vegetables from the liquid with chopsticks and move them to a serving bowl.

Once the steaks have rested on the cracked peppercorns for at least a half-hour, give them one last firm press and then gently lift them so that the peppercorns remain affixed to one side. Place them on a drying rack atop a cookie sheet, pepper-side up and bake them for ten minutes at 175F. Remove the steaks from the oven and, with a quick-read thermometer, verify that the steaks are at least 98F. In a stainless steel sauté pan over a medium-high flame, heat one tablespoon of peanut oil to smoking, and place all three steaks peppercorn-side down in the hot oil. Let the steaks cook for two minutes (no matter how tempting it may be to turn them early). Using tongs (a spatula will knock off the peppercorns), carefully turn each steak over (peppercorn-side up) and cook them, unmolested, for a minute and a half. If you have a high-power burner (12,000 BTU or better), turn down the flame as necessary to keep the oil from burning. You want brown-residue from the steaks but not ash. Turn the steak and allow each of the remaining four sides to cook for 30 seconds each. For irregular sides, hold the steaks in place with the tongs. Remove the steaks to a cooling rack and tent them with foil. Allow the steaks to rest at least ten minutes.

Reduce the flame to low medium and add in the minced shallots. Stir the shallots constantly for at least a minute while they sweat. The liquid from the shallots should at least begin to deglaze the pan. Pour in the sherry and let it cook down until the pan sauce is reduced to about two tablespoons. Turn off the flame and whisk in the four tablespoons of cubed butter to mount the pan sauce. If the pan sauce is mounted before the steaks are done resting, pour the sauce into a cool container (measuring cup or gravy boat) to prevent its breaking.

In a non-stick sauté pan, over a medium-high flame bring a tablespoon of olive oil to the smoke point. If your scallops are previously-frozen and you've been salting them to eliminate moisture, wipe off any remaining salt. Place the scallop disks in the hot oil and allow them to cook, unmolested, for two minutes. Once the scallops have developed a nice crust, flip them and sear the other side.

After at least ten minutes of resting, slice the steaks very thin and plate them. Plate the leeks and potatoes. Plate the scallops atop the leeks. Drizzle a spoonful of pan sauce over each set of steak slices.