How I Poisoned My Family

A Tale of Two Hasselbacks

The internet is rife with Hasselback potato recipes. Many of these recipes refer to Hasselbacks as "Swedish baked potatoes," and some note that these fancy potatoes were originally served in a Stockholm restaurant, the Restaurang Hasselbacken (Hazel Hill restaurant), in the late 1700s. That the potatoes were named for the restaurant I do not doubt. I'm a bit less certain about the date. Although a restaurant called the Hasselbacken has been on Djurgården island in central Stockholm since the 1760s, I've had no luck tracking the origin of the potatoes with any such certainty.

In fact, I'm not really sure what the original Hasselbacks looked or tasted like. If you peruse the many internet recipes, you will find Hasselbacks peeled and Hasselbacks rustic, made with starchy potatoes and waxy potatoes and everything in between, sprinkled in breadcrumbs and cheese, stuffed with herbs or stuffed with nothing, devoid of any addition but butter or olive oil. If you're looking for the Iconic Hasselback—well, good luck. The one constant I've found in these many recipes is the comb-cut potato, which is really the most important innovation. The potatoes are sliced with as many cuts as possible, none all the way through, about 1/8th-inch apart across the long axis of the potato. This cut is what makes it possible to produce a potato that combines the fluffiness of baked potatoes with the crispy edges of their roasted cousins. Good stuff, no matter how you top or stuff it.

The comb-cut, as many have discovered, also allows you to infuse the potato with the flavors of herbs, cheeses, breadcrumbs, butter and other flavored oils—more than you could possibly manage with a whole or hollowed potato. The comb-cut also allows you to use a greater variety of potatoes, successfully, for baking. For a proper texture, baking usually requires starchy potatoes (some call them mealy potatoes, but that doesn't sound at all appetizing). Starchy potatoes have a porous skin and loose textured flesh that lets heat flow readily through the potato, allowing them to bake in a reasonable amount of time. Because the comb-cut of the Hasselback offers up more surface area to the baking space, any kind of potato can be used. I have found that medium-sized reds and Yukon golds produce more flavorful Hasselbacks than russets, which are the classic baking variety. The reds yield a more earthy flavor; the golds, a more buttery result.

My earliest introduction to something like this concept wasn't called "Hasselback." Roger Verge's Vegetables in the French Style, describes what his translator calls "bay-scented roasted potatoes." Roger peels his waxy potatoes, slices them more thickly (3/8" vice 1/8") than Hasselbacks, and inserts a strip of bay leaf into each slit in the potatoes. The result is a fluffy, creamy infusion of bay laurel floral/spicy/herbal notes into potato earthiness.

After a bit of experimentation, I came up with the variation I describe below, using waxy potatoes, unpeeled, a combination of olive oil and butter for basting, and the insertion of bay leaves alternating with cellophane-thin garlic slices into the cuts. The first time I served my finalized variation to the girls and a guest, I had a hard time getting anyone to eat the rest of the meal. The potatoes were the star of the show. Even my lovely wife, who usually prefers rice to potatoes, praised the dish.

So, when Da Boy—a sixteen-year-old with an avowed enthusiasm for all manner of potatoes—was visiting for a special dinner, those glorious Hasselbacks seemed an ideal treat to enliven the meal. I was running low on bay leaves, so I picked up a pack while shopping at my favorite specialty market. Their packaged herbs were a different brand than what I usually purchase at my neighborhood grocer. The leaves were about three inches long, a bit narrower than what I'm used to buying, thinner and decidedly paler than the bay leaves I usually get, but I really didn't think these minor differences would matter. They certainly smelled like bay leaves. In fact, if I'd been paying more attention, I might have noticed that they smelled more like bay leaves on steroids.

I prepared the potatoes as before, using up the dark bay leaves I had on hand before turning to the pale ones. In potatoes containing the paler bay leaves, I used one third of a leaf in every other slit in the potatoes. I used perhaps as much as three whole leaves in a single potato.

At the beginning of dinner, the girls agreed the potatoes were as good as usual, but the boy hadn't tried them yet. Initially, he was more interested by the protein offering (grilled dorado). At my urging, he finally tried the potatoes. He took one bite and said, "That's disgusting."

I was flabbergasted. Disgusting? Potatoes with butter, salt, olive oil, gloriously infused with garlic and the essence of bay, gently roasted to a crinkly, golden turn—how could such a thing be disgusting?

Princess V disagreed. "You're out of your mind. These potatoes are divine." (Princess V had me go back in and add the italics.)

Had I done something wrong? Da Boy loves mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, pan-roasted potatoes, fries. How could this be?

I tried the potatoes for myself. My first bite seemed fine—crispy edges, buttery center, hints of garlic and eucalyptus—but after two more bites, I wasn't so certain. Something was wrong. Off. Something was too sharp. My sinuses were hurting. An unfocused source was driving a needle up through my nasal passages into my forehead. It felt like the onset of the mother of all sinus headaches. This couldn't have anything to do with dinner. Was something pollinating? I took one more bite of my potato, and the pain quadrupled. I couldn't see straight. Tears welled at every breath. I stood up and paced, trying to walk off the pain. I looked at my dinner. Could that be the problem? My potatoes? But the girls weren't affected.

Examining what was on each plate, I quickly determined the source of this problem. Princess V and the girlchild were both eating potatoes stuffed with the old, darker bay leaves. The boy and I were eating potatoes infused by the paler organic leaves. Could bay leaves really differ that much from plant to plant? Could something in conventional bay leaves be removing toxins? That certainly seemed counterintuitive.

A few days later, my brother-in-law was visiting, and I told him about our little bay incident. He took one look at the leaves and said, "Those aren't bay. Those are eucalyptus." I'd had a eucalyptus tree in my front yard in San Diego many years ago, and I had to admit, the leaves did look quite a bit like eucalyptus—paler than bay, longer, thinner. Folding a leaf released a scent of something very much like camphor. I didn't remember eucalyptus being quite that strong, but the aroma profile seemed about right. It was definitely much stronger than anything I expect from bay leaves. Thinking we'd solved the problem, I decided I'd best report this problem to the purveyor: I called Generation Farms. They had been good enough to put their phone number on the package.

Generation Farms was spectacular in response to my complaint. They apologized for my discomfort and explained the source of confusion. Generation Farms is dedicated to providing strictly organic produce, but bay laurel trees are a bit troublesome for year-round organic production. As a result, producers dedicated to providing organically-grown bay tend to rely on a more forgiving plant: something called "California bay". The Generation Farms rep explained that California bay is far more potent than Mediterranean bay. Based on our experience with the potatoes, one of the California bay leaves would have sufficed for a half dozen potatoes. Based on what they told me, I'd used about ten times too much.

The Generation Farms folks apologized for the misunderstanding and sent me a care package by way of reparations, including not only actual Mediterranean bay laurel leaves but also many samples of their other herbs: savory, lemon grass, rosemary, and thyme. I did express my opinion that it just doesn't make sense to label two so very different products the same way. According to Generation Farms, some of the restaurateurs actually prefer the California bay. I guess it's a bit more economical if you know how to use it.

Then again, if they're just two variants of the same sort of plants, is it the farmer's fault that my botany skills are lacking?

Perhaps. I did a little research, though, California bay isn't really bay. "California bay" is something of a marketing ploy.

Bay laurel, an aromatic leaf used as an herb and perfume for well over five thousand years, is a variety of laurel (Laurus nobilis) indigenous to the Mediterranean. Bay laurel leaves exude a mild combination of essential oils, providing a mix of woody, floral, and spicy notes and, yes, a mild hint of something like eucalyptus.

So-called "California bay" isn't a bay laurel at all. It's a native North American plant, Umbellularia californicans. In all fairness, it is true that Umbellularia is a member of the laurel family, but it's the sole member of the Umbellularia genus. Again I say: this is not bay laurel. Before finding a market as "California bay," Umbellularia was variously known by such telling names as Pepperwood, Spice Bush, and—my personal fave—Headache Tree. Herbal medicine specialists with chops in Native American herbalism will tell you that, in small doses, Umbellularia can cure headaches. In slightly larger doses, it causes headaches. I can attest to this from personal experience.

So the plant is a laurel, but it's not a bay laurel. The packages for both varieties say "Bay Leaves." Still sounds like false advertising to me. Cooks in the US and Europe have been using bay laurel to impart a subtle yet complex flavor profile to roasts, soups, and stews for hundreds of years. If Umbellularia is being marketed as a substitute that's more organic-friendly and more economical than bay laurel, why aren't the purveyors willing to be honest about the switch and label their product "California Bay"?

Caveat emptor.

Bay and Garlic Perfumed Haselback Potatoes

dramatis personae
serves 4

6 medium (size-C) potatoes
two large garlic cloves
a dozen medium bay leaves
olive oil
cracked black pepper
salt

quality of ingredients

For best results, use red or Yukon gold potatoes. California whites will work in a pinch. Select potatoes that are all about the same size and shape and relatively free of blemishes.

I've talked about garlic before, so here's the short form: you want white rather than purple-stripe garlic for roasting.

Use fresh bay leaves, and, as I think I've made abundantly clear, use Mediterranean bay leaves, unless you really want to upset your diners.

preparation notes

Set your oven rack near the bottom and preheat to 400F.

Slice the potatoes across the long axis, making cuts every 1/8th of an inch, being careful not to cut all the way through the potatoes. I prefer resting the potato in a plastic spoon that's deep enough to keep me from cutting all the way through.

The result should look something like this:

Prepare the garlic by peeling it and then slicing it thin enough to read through the slices.

In each slit in the potatoes place, alternately, a half-leaf of bay or one of the extra-thin garlic slices.

Brush the potatoes with olive oil and place them, slit-side up, separated by an inch or more, in a roasting pan. You might have to slice a little off the bottom of each potato to make them stand up in the pan. Brush the potatoes with olive oil and sprinkle the potatoes liberally with salt and cracked pepper. Roast them in the oven until a small knife, inserted at the thickest part of the potato goes in easily and comes out clean (about 25 minutes).