The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 4

Death of the Gilded Warrior

Back before the Internet and personal computers—hell, before my parents even acquiesced to putting a television in our home (black-and-white, UHF, ostensibly 13 channels but at least eight were unused), my primary source of infotainment was the Colliers and Americana Encyclopedias my father had bought with the U.S. savings bonds that were supposed to have been my college money. I particularly enjoyed the Colliers volumes that contained extensive sets of color plates. Volumes A (amphibians), B (birds), M (mammals), and R (reptiles), for example, were like comic books for a junior trivia geek like me. The real treasure trove, however, was the F volume: flags, flowers, and fish.

It was in the Colliers F that I first saw what the encyclopedia then called a dolphin (I later learned that ichthyologists call them dolphinfish to avoid confusion with Flipper and company). What a bizarre character. The blunted-tomahawk face of the dolphinfish looks completely at odds with the fish's acute sternward body taper, its Mohawk dorsal fin, and its scissor tail. The effect is something like putting a Rolls Royce grill on a Lotus Europa. As if the shape alone weren't enough to make them look like something out of a Ken Kesey/Hunter S. Thompson collaboration, dolphinfish sport glam rock scales of electric blues and neon greens awash with what looks like gold dust.

A few years after my first discovery of the dolphinfish, furor over the trapping of dolphins, porpoises, and small whales prompted a demand in the U.S. and Europe for dophin-free tuna. Restaurateurs and fishmongers deemed it prudent to avoid the terms dolphin and dolphinfish in reference to anything they were hoping to sell for human consumption. The Hawaiian and Latin American names mahimahi and dorado were quickly taken up.

Mahimahi, I'm sorry to report, is the name that stuck. Mahimahi translates as "strong strong," a verbal construction that sounds a bit goofy to anyone accustomed to a language with either a bit of variety or even a few decent intensifiers. The English equivalent would be something like very strong or powerful or potent or kick-ass. Understanding the source of the word has not helped me learn to like it, nor has it made buying the fish any easier. I still feel like a dork asking my fishmonger for a mahimahi filet. It sounds like I'm stuttering.

The term dorado literally means "golden one," a name that was given to the legendary South American warriors who supposedly dusted themselves with gold dust after bathing. I like this name. It's fanciful, and it describes a striking aspect of the fish. It doesn't sound silly.

Sadly, the term dorado is being swallowed up by the encroaching mahimahi. Even the restaurants in Cozumel sell it as mahimahi. I'm not sure why mahimahi managed to outpace dorado, but I think it has something to do with a popular recipe. Search for mahimahi recipes online and you'll find quite a few versions of Macadamia-crusted mahimahi in coconut milk. Frankly, this is an unimpressive combination. I love fish poached in coconut milk, and I like Macadamia nuts, but the combination is bland. If you want to coat fish with nutmeats, hazelnuts or almonds provide a good deal more flavor and character, but I wouldn't use even those coatings in coconut milk. The result would be, as Princess V is fond of saying, much of a muchness. I think the Macadamia-coconut treatment is popular simply because of its exotic-sounding combination of Hawaiian ingredients.

The Non-White White

I know that I said at the outset of the Secret Language of Fish that I was going to talk about white-fleshed fish, and I know that a lot of cookbooks claim that mahimahi is a white-fleshed fish. In truth, mahimahi is not a white-fleshed fish—not exactly. The raw flesh is generally pink with dark red along the lateral line. This fish is a powerful pelagic, after all. These guys spend their lives on the go, and they depend upon their speed for survival—think of the dolphinfish as something like a billfish after an overzealous rhinoplasty. Like all his fully shnozzed billfish cousins, the flesh of the dolphinfish has a dense, meaty texture. Mahimahi cooks up slightly firmer than tuna but not quite as firm as swordfish.

The majority of mahimahi flesh does cook white. Whitish. Perhaps we should call it off-white. The red strips turn dark brown but taste pretty much the same as the white portions. Many diners find the dark strip unappetizing, and since the stripe in forward portions of the filet contains sharp little bones, I usually trim off this lateral line strip.

Like tuna, mahimahi stands up well to grilling, broiling, and searing. Many diners seem to be put off by the pink-within-white look of seared mahimahi. I suppose it looks a bit like undercooked chicken. This is unfortunate; rare mahimahi is delicious and has a firm texture.

Grilled mahimahi, like grilled tuna or swordfish, can be served like a steak with little or no sauce. One of my favorite treatments is grilled mahimahi with mango salsa served over chimichurri rice. I'm sure you'll find this treatment colorful, complex in flavor, and obscenely simple to prepare. The following recipe feeds three.

Half-grilled mahimahi with mango salsa

dramatis personae

one mango, diced
juice of one small lime
one half of a small sweet onion, diced
one red serrano chilli, seeded and minced
a few drops of sesame oil
a pinch of sea salt
a tablespoon of chopped cilantro leaves

one pound mahimahi filet
one teaspoon peanut oil
one half cup basmati rice

two tablespoons chimichurri or tomatillo salsa

quality of ingredients

Mahimahi filets should be pink with red stripes. If they're tan with brown stripes, they've been out too long. Also, the flesh should smell sweet, with no hint of ammonia. Mahimahi skin is a flat, steely grey. Sadly, the fish lose their brilliant colors within minutes of dying.

The mango should be yielding but not mushy or bruised.

If you can't find red serrano chillis, substitute red jalapeños, red fresnos, or red fingerhots.

Chimichurri is available at some grocery stores; tomatillo salsa is even more readily available. I use the prepared stuff because I only want two tablespoons for the rice. If you want to make your own chimichurri, it's not too complicated: fresh parsley, oregano, garlic, jalapeño, salt, peanut oil, and a little lemon juice.

preparation notes

Make the salsa first. Combine the ingredients (mango, lime juice, onion, serrano, sesame oil,
salt, and cilantro) and put the salsa in the refrigerator while you prepare everything else. After half an hour, much of the mango will have softened or dissolved in the lime juice.

Prepare the rice as you normally would. Once the rice is done but before it cools, stir in the chimichurri (or green salsa).

Remove the red flesh and any bones from the mahimahi, but leave the skin on.

You can grill, barbecue, or sauté the filet. I prefer cooking the mahimahi in two steps. First, in a non-stick sauté pan with a teaspoon of peanut oil, cook the filets skin-side down over a medium-high flame, just enough to cook them halfway through (about three to five minutes, depending on the thickness of the filet). Then finish the other side of the filets on a grill or grill pan.

Serve the filets skin-side down on a bed of chimichurri rice with a generous topping of mango salsa.

Piña Colada Mahimahi

This is my own kitschy, faux-Hawaiian answer to the Macadamia/coconut dish.

Most white-fleshed fish goes well with coconut milk, but it takes the sturdiness of mahimahi, swordfish, or albacore to stand up to pineapple enzymes. Despite the name, this mahimahi dish contains no rum. White wine, yes, but no rum. The miso serves to thicken the sauce and also harmonizes well with pineapple.

I've tried this recipe only once. The flavors meshed nicely, but I created waaaaaaaay too much sauce. In other words, I'm just guessing on these quantities.

dramatis personae

one cup of diced pineapple
one half can (7 ounces) unsweetened coconut milk
two tablespoons white miso
one minced red fingerhot chilli
three keffir lime leaves
two tablespoons peanut oil
one pound mahimahi
one quarter cup pinot grigio

quality of ingredients

I used fresh pineapple. The canned stuff always tastes too sweet to me. Because this recipe requires only a cup of pineapple, you'll have fresh pineapple around for other uses for the next few days.

Fresh coconut milk would be great, but (1) it's a pain in the tuchus and (2) the canned stuff is just fine. Be sure you're using unsweetened coconut milk and not sweetened coconut cream.

If you can't get keffir lime leaves, I don't know what to tell you. Keffir lime zest is almost as good, but if you can get the limes, you can usually get the leaves. A little lime juice will give the sauce a bit of zing, but it can't compete with the complex aromatic tartness of keffir lime leaves.

If you can't find red fingerhot chillis, substitute red jalapeños, or red fresnos. If you want something with a serious burn, use a cayenne chilli instead of a fingerhot.

preparation notes

This dish is prepared in three parts: sauce, topping, and filets.

For the sauce combine the coconut milk, the miso, and half of the pineapple chunks in a blender. Blend this concoction to a smooth, creamy consistency.

For the topping: (1) Mince the keffir lime leaves very fine. (2) In half of the peanut oil, sauté the remaining pineapple and the chilli. The pineapple chunks will get a wee bit darker and slightly more translucent, and the chilli will brighten. (3) Stir in the keffir lime and remove the topping from the heat.

For the filets:
Heat a teaspoon of peanut oil in a non-stick skillet over a high flame until the oil begins to shimmer. Spread the oil over the bottom of the pan (it doesn't have to cover completely), and place the mahimahi filets in the pan, skin side up. Leave them alone for two full minutes. Turn the filets over. The cooked side should be golden brown. Taking care not to pour any wine onto the filets, pour the white wine into the pan (the steam from the wine will help finish the filets more evenly). Cover and allow the filets to cook for another three minutes on medium-high heat.

Serve the filets individually plated on rice, skin side down. Top each filet with a portion of the topping and pour on enough sauce to cover the filets.

Hot orange mahimahi teriyaki

I was tempted to call this an American teriyaki, just to avoid nettling the purists. You see, authentic teriyaki—Japanese teriyaki—is made with four ingredients: sake, mirin, sugar, and soy sauce. American and European teriyaki's are typically made with garlic, which is rare in Japanese dishes, and ginger, which is more common in Chinese and Korean cooking. In fact, some argue that most American teriyaki sauces are closer to bulgogi sauce (Korean barbecue).

But why quibble? The name teriyaki translates as "shiny grilled thing," which provides no guidance as to ingredients. I and my audience expect teriyaki to have sweet, sour, soy-salty, garlicky, and gingery notes. With that in mind, I try to find the right balance of ingredients for whatever dish I'm preparing. In my years of experimentation, I've concocted teriyakis for steak, spare ribs, chicken, duck, eel, mackerel, bluefish, shrimp, salmon, scallops, and mahimahi. I don't know how many of those I can say I've perfected (okay, the scallops were ghastly and the bluefish was so-so) but this mahimahi recipe is easily my most successful to date.

dramatis personae

(these proportions will feed three)

1 lb mahimahi
1/2 cup tamari
1/3 cup sake
1/3 cup cider vinegar
zest and juice (1/3 cup) of 1 medium navel orange
1 tbl grated ginger
1 tbl minced garlic
2 tbls honey
1 Thai chilli, seeded and finely diced
peanut oil

quality of ingredients

I don't usually talk about the process of creating something like this, so I guess I'm overdue. Part of what makes dishes like fun for me is the chance to experiment, tweaking a flavor here, a flavor there, while maintaining the overall balance of elements.

For teriyaki sauces, I generally try to match what I expect of the flavor of the base ingredient against the following balance of sauce component types:

• soy
• rice wine or some other light wine
• something sweet
• something tart
• some ginger
• some garlic
• some additional spice for character

Garlic and ginger are relatively stable elements, but most of these items offers a surprisingly wide range of possibilities.

Over the years, I've gone through a number of different soy sauces. I now use just two: Chinese dark soy and Japanese tamari. Tamari, a soy sauce made from pure soya, tends to be much lighter and more subtle than the Chinese dark soys. The Chinese dark soy is made with wheat and soya and thickened with sugar, making it viscous, rich, and toasty. I prefer tamari with fish (except salmon and fishy-tasting fish like mackerel) and shrimp. For most applications I find that I will use three times as much tamari as I would dark soy sauce.

I don't fully understand the traditional use of sake, mirin, and sugar. Mirin is sweet rice wine. Adding sugar makes it sweeter. Adding sake makes it drier. Using all three just seems silly to me. Because it's difficult to find good mirin for a reasonable price (and without going to a specialty wine shop) and because the "cooking" mirin sold in US grocery stores is corn-syrup-fortified crap, I typically forego this. I tend to substitute michiu (Chinese rice wine) for the sake because the results are about the same, and michiu is far cheaper. If you can't find sake or michiu, any cheap, dry white wine will do.

For the something sweet, the traditional Japanese solution is a combination of mirin and sugar. Many American and European recipes substitute sherry for the mirin, but I don't recommend it. I can always tell when a recipe uses sherry. I find the distinctive sherry aftertaste out of place in teriyaki—reminds me of moules à la marinière. Don't get me wrong. I like moules à la marinière, but I don't want my teriyaki to taste like them. But, hey, whatever floats your boat. If you like sherry in your teriyaki, use it. Of course, as I said already, I prefer not using mirin or sherry. I prefer teriyaki sweetened with honey, brown sugar, or fruit juice. I am particularly partial to orange or tangerine juice with fish teriyaki. Brown sugar adds a molasses-y depth to your sauce, and honey adds a similar rich something extra.

For the something tart, I typically use apple cider vinegar. Be sure to check that the label doesn't say "apple cider flavored," which means you've been sold some artificially flavored white vinegar. Nasty stuff. Feel free to experiment with other vinegars (sweetened rice wine vinegar is not bad). Be aware, though, that balsamic and sherry vinegars will add a strong fruity note that you might not want in your teriyaki. Chinese black vinegar is good in sparerib teriyaki.

In this mahimahi teriyaki, I've added orange zest (to augment the citrus flavor imparted by the juice) and a Thai chilli to add a little zing. A few items I've tried that worked well with some treatments include star anise, white pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and coriander seed. Your mileage may vary.

preparation notes

As with most teriyaki, the first step is to mix the sauce. Combine the tamari, sake, cider vinegar, orange juice, garlic, ginger, honey, and minced chilli in a glass or ceramic bowl large enough to hold the sauce plus the filets. Do not add the zest at this point.

Remove the skin and red flesh (which may have turned brown by the time you get it home) from the filets. Assuming you have started with a single one-pound portion of filet, you should now have two skinless slices of fish, one about twice the size of the other. Divide each of these into thirds. Immerse the six pieces of mahimahi in the sauce and allow them to marinate for at least fifteen but not more than thirty minutes. If this marinates too long you'll have teriyaki ceviche. I use this time to rinse my rice and prep whatever vegetables I am serving as a side dish.

Remove the mahimahi from the sauce and set the pieces aside on a plate to dry.

Pour the sauce into a small sauce pan and, over a low flame, reduce it by half. This should take about twenty minutes (making this an ideal time to cook the rice).

When the sauce is nearly reduced (after about fifteen minutes), preheat the peanut oil in your grill pan over a medium-high flame. When the oil begins to shimmer, spread it over the grill with a pastry brush or paper towel.

Once the sauce is reduced, pour it through a strainer or sieve to remove the solids. Return the sauce to the sauce pan over the lowest flame your stove will maintain. Stir in the orange zest.

Grill the mahimahi pieces on one side for two minutes. Turn the pieces over and grill them for an additional two minutes.

Remove the mahimahi from the grill and pour a teaspoon of the teriyaki sauce over each piece of fish.

I serve teriyaki with accompanying bowls of white rice and smaller bowls of the warm teriyaki sauce. The fish might not need any more sauce, but the girls and I like to add a bit of the sauce to our rice.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 3

"Good Enough for Jehovah"

The line is from a Monty Python movie. If you recognize the reference, you already know that this entry is about halibut. The halibut in that particular Python joke was essential to the story line only in that it has a funny name and, in first-century A.D. Judea, was something of an anachronism.

If you're confused, consider that it could be worse: I could have titled this "Just for—" but let's not go there.

Halibut is the largest and sturdiest of the flat fishes. You probably don't care about the shape unless you are a fishmonger or you plan to go fishing off the coast of Canada. For most cooks, halibut is comes in two forms: thick filets (roughly 1 to 2.5 inches) and steaks. Both are usually sold with the skin on (dark grey if it's a topside fillet, white if it's from the bottom). The steaks contain stout bones.

Because it lives in more northerly climes than flounder, turbot, and sole, halibut contains a bit more fat than the others. Though the difference in fat might seem negligible (0.8 grams of fat per ounce of halibut vice 0.4 grams per ounce for flounder), it is enough to allow you to grill the halibut. That trick never works for flounder, sole, or turbot, which just sort of plate out on the hot metal.

Halibut is generally described as mild, flaky, sweet, and delicate. Some cooks claim it has little or no flavor of its own. Both of these claims are about half right. Halibut, like turkey and peanuts, is high in tryptophan. Pure L-tryptophan tastes something like quinine; pure D-tryptophan tastes sweet and a tiny bit like bananas. This balance of bitter and sweet is probably why halibut matches so well with mild sweet flavors. A tiny bit of fruity sweetness heightens the sweetness of D-tryptophan and masks the bitterness of the L-tryptophan.

As sashimi, sushi, or a tartare, I find the sweetness is best heightened with a bit of citrus. The Japanese apparently agree and traditionally match hirame sashami with yuzu-based sauces. I attempted a halibut tartare flavored with orange zest, but the zest proved too bitter. A second attempt sweetened with a splash of tangerine juice worked much better.

I prefer berries and pome fruits with cooked halibut, though. I have had some luck, for example, combining seared halibut with a blackberry-wasabi sauce and steamed halibut with strawberry butter.

A few nights ago, inspired by a local restaurant's offering that I thought I could "fix," I tried a savory halibut preparation. I made a bouillabaise-inspired sauce, fortified with roughly chopped rock shrimp, and I dusted the broiled fish with a hazelnut/green-peppercorn topping. I was not satisfied with the results. I was hoping the sweetness of the hazelnuts and of the rock shrimp would enhance that of the halibut. The components all came out fine, but they did not play well together. The hazelnuts worked well, but in every bite of halibut that contained a bite of rock shrimp, the flavor of the halibut disappeared. Also, the slightly piney taste of the green peppercorns proved a bit too assertive in places.

Fortunately, my fragile ego was saved by last night's efforts. I'd been thinking about combining a different set of sweet and fruity flavors in support of halibut, and it all came out exactly as I'd hoped it would. It even looked right. I'll have to do it again soon, just to get a photo of it.

Seared halibut poached in perry served over lemon-pepper rice

These quantities serve two.

dramatis personae

24 ounces (two bottles) perry
one pound halibut fillet, skin on
one teaspoon peanut oil
two tablespoons tarragon chiffonade
two tablespoons butter
one tablespoon dijon mustard
one hosui or other asian pear

one half cup basmati rice
one cup water or chicken broth
a splash of sesame oil
zest of one medium lemon
a pinch of course ground black pepper
a pinch of sea salt

selection of ingredients

I've previously harped on the importance of fresh seafood, and I'm still right. Frozen fish sucks. You may as well use cotton batting as some of that crap they sell at the fish counters in most supermarkets. If you don't have a decent fishmonger in your area, do yourself a favor: have chicken for dinner tonight. The halibut should be solid, moist, and shiny. The flesh begins to gap and lose its sheen as it dries out. The skin (regardless whether it's grey or white) should be free of blemishes. If it smells fishy, you don't want it.

Perry is a cider-like fermentation of pear juice traditionally made with pears that are too bitter and sharp tasting to eat. Generally, dessert pears are said to result in an insipid perry. Although still produced by several commercial brewers in the UK, you won't find perry in most grocery or liquor stores in the US. I bought mine in an upscale grocery store (Central Market in Austin, Texas). You might find perry in stores specializing in fine beer and wine imports. I also know a few home brewers who make perry.

If you can't find perry, hard apple cider should work. In either case, you want the driest perry or cider you can find. My market had two perries; one with 18 grams of sugar per twelve-ounce bottle and one with 9 grams of sugar per twelve-ounce bottle. I chose the less sweet. You can always add fruit juice or sugar if you decide the cider is too bitter. If the stuff starts out too sugary, you're screwed (and not in a good way).

Use fresh tarragon. The dried stuff tastes like tobacco soaked in anisette—bleah.

I chose basmati rice in this case because its firm texture and a nutty flavor play well with fish.

preparation notes

In a small sauce pan over medium-high heat, reduce the perry by half. This takes about fifteen or twenty minutes.

The rice is pretty easy. Combine the rice, broth (or water), and sesame oil and prepare the rice however you normally prepare rice (stovetop, rice cooker, microwave). Blend the lemon zest, salt, and pepper using a mortar and pestle to crush them into a fairly uniform lemon-pepper paste. Once the rice is done, stir in the lemon-pepper.

Slice the fillet in half.

Once the perry is nearly reduced, heat the teaspoon of peanut oil in a non-stick skillet over a high flame until the oil begins to shimmer. Spread the oil over the bottom of the pan (it doesn't have to cover completely), and place the halibut fillets in the pan skin side up. Leave them alone for two full minutes.

Gently turn the fillets over. The cooked side should be golden brown. Allow the fillets to cook for another two minutes on high heat (this breaks down and frees up some of the gelatin in the skins, which you want for the sauce you're going to make).

Pour the hot perry over the fillets. Cover the fillets, and reduce the flame to medium high. Let the fillets poach for five minutes (or until done—remember, these instructions are for two-inch-thick fillets). When the fillets are done (if you're not certain, use a paring knife to separate the flakes at the center of one fillet; they should be opaque but not dried out) carefully remove them from the liquid to a covered dish. Gently. The seared surface will help keep them whole, but the fillets are fragile.

Continue to simmer the poaching liquid, stirring frequently, until it is nearly gone. Stir in the mustard to thicken the liquid. Reduce the heat to low and mount the sauce with the butter. Stir in the tarragon and remove the sauce from the heat.

Serve each fillet over a mound of lemon-pepper rice with just enough of the sauce to cover the fillet. Garnish with a few thin slices of asian pear. We enjoyed our halibut with a side of haricot verts sautéed in extra-virgin olive oil with cremini mushrooms, but any savory green vegetable should work.

My latest beef

(I'm taking a timeout from the Secret Language of Fish because I had another recipe or two—not related to the four white-flesh fishes—that I wanted to share. I'm still working out recipes for halibut, mahimahi, and snapper. This entry is fish-related, though.)

Cats, cavemen, and BSE

I vaguely remember ridiculing a cat food commercial (I know, easy target) in which the announcer touted the flavors of this particular variety of chow providing "...the flavors your cat naturally craves." I heard that and thought, "My cat naturally craves beef?" Somewhere in little Snowball's DNA is the genetic recollection of her ancestors stalking the steppes for wild bovines? Those little bastards must've had wicked claws.

Of course it was balderdash. Felis domesticus naturally craves things like rodents, songbirds, fat crickets, and small lizards. I'm guessing that the chow companies don't make the flavors cats truly crave simply because labels like Savory Sparrow, Rat Paté, and Crunchy Cricket would not play well with the target market's purchasing agents (people). Similarly, don't expect to find Rancid Antelope Haunch in the dog food section any time soon (although most canned dogfood certainly smells like something a wild dog would roll in).

Pet food flavors like "Marinated Beef Feast In Savory Juice" were designed with human buyers in mind. Why?

Because humans naturally crave beef. Our ancestors actually did stalk the steppes in search of wild bovines. They killed them. They ate them. They gorged themselves on bloody red meat and rejoiced. When they recovered from this orgy of ingestion, they sharpened their sticks and went looking for more.

(NB - If you're a vegetarian or a vegan, don't bother writing to tell me I'm wrong about craving beef or about genetic sense memories. You're the ones deluding yourselves into believing that soy burgers and eggplant satisfy your cravings.)

The USDA and the National Cattlemen's Beef Association want us to keep eating beef. After reading Richard Rhodes's Deadly Feasts, though, I'm having a hard time convincing myself that any beef sold in the US is truly safe. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy is some scary shit. It turns you into a drooling idiot and then kills you. It strikes without warning. No one has the foggiest notion how to treat it. What's more, no test has been developed to find BSE in muscle tissue.

The people who want us to eat beef keep saying things like, "such and such cow was tested and showed no signs of BSE" and "we quarantined and then destroyed the affected animals" and "the American beef supply is completely safe" and my favorite, "I'm a family man. Do you think I'd deliberately feed toxic meat to my kids? And I feed them beef three times a day."

The USDA admits, "On December 23, 2003, FSIS issued a Class II recall of approximately 10,410 pounds of raw beef that may have been exposed to tissues containing the infectious agent that causes BSE." They go on, however, to explain that this is not a high-priority recall. "According to scientific evidence, the tissues of highest infectivity are the brain, spinal cord, and distal ileum portion of the small intestine. All were removed from the rest of the carcass at slaughter. Therefore, the meat produced were cuts that would not be expected to be infected or have an adverse public health impact."

"Highest infectivity" is doublespeak. Scientific evidence suggests it only takes one prion—a crystalline structure sub-cellular structure—to cause BSE. Our immune systems take no notice of these infectious bodies and may even be culpable in their spread. There are no mild cases of BSE. You get it—you babble and drool—you die.

Every once in a while, I work up the nerve to prepare a beef dish. Genetic and sense memories are unwitting accomplices of the cattleman's association. Yes, the author naturally craves the beef.

Generally, though, I have been trying to avoid beef. One of my favorite substitutes for beef are what I like to think of as "beefy" fish: tuna, albacore, and billfish. All of these have a flavor and texture somewhat reminiscent of beef in some treatments. Here are a couple.

Grilled albacore steaks with thick enchilada sauce

These are steaks but they might not look the part to anyone used to buying salmon or halibut steaks. Here's why this is confusing: the term steak, when applied to fish means a slice perpendicular to the spine. Fillets of tuna, albacore, and billfish are too large to be sold intact and are typically sliced into steaks.

dramatis personnae

3/4" to 1" thick albacore steaks
four mulatto peppers
one half cup water
juice of one medium lime
one small can tomato paste
pinch of sea salt

preparation notes

Grill the steaks (grill pan, grill, barbecue). The steaks should be cooked through (rare albacore has a mushy texture, which I find unpleasant). This takes just two minutes on a side if you're using a grill pan.

I suppose you could use yellowfin, bluefin, or big eye tuna for this preparation; you could also use swordfish steaks.

The mulatto chilli purée is a variant on the one I described in My Little Brown Jug with the addition of tomato paste (after straining the purée) for a flavor reminiscent of enchilada sauce. After you've strained the purée, added the tomato paste, and salted the sauce, mix a little more water to thin the sauce just enough to pour (about the consistency of a thick pasta sauce).

To serve, on each plate pour a circle of sauce as wide as a single steak. Place the steak on the sauce. Serve with fresh corn tortillas and a green vegetable or salad.

Tuna carpaccio

I love carpaccio, and I use almost the same recipe for tuna that I use for beef. Three exceptions:

1. I do not include gruyere curls with tuna. The two tastes clash.
2. I use a different green complement (fresh mustard greens with beef; wilted watercress with tuna).
3. I do not pound or roll tuna carpaccio. The slices are strictly knife work.

dramatis personnae

one pound bluefin or yellowfin tuna
juice of two lemons
one quarter cup extra-virgin olive oil
a pinch of sea salt
cracked black pepper
one bunch watercress
one half teaspoon sesame oil
a splash of dark soy sauce
one half teaspoon sesame seeds
croutons

preparation notes

Yes, believe it or not, it is actually possible to enjoy raw tuna without the support of wasabi or the green horseradish that passes for wasabi in most American sushi bars.

You really have to have a good knife for this. I recommend a santoku or sashimi knife. Put the tuna in the freezer for about a half hour before slicing to firm it up.

You can drizzle the olive oil and lemon juice over the tuna separately (looks very artsy) or whisk them together first. In either case, do not dress the tuna until you are ready to serve it; the acid will begin pickling the fish immediately. (I like ceviche, too, but this is supposed to be a carpaccio.)

Remove most of the stems from the watercress. If you prefer, snow pea leaves and tendrils make a pleasant substitute for watercress. In either case, to blanch the greens bring a pot of water to a boil and drop in the greens. Immediately remove the pot from the flame and pour the greens into a colander or strainer. Rinse the greens in cold water to prevent any further cooking. Toss the greens with the sesame oil and soy. Sprinkle sesame seeds over the greens for serving.

For croutons, I slice a baguette into coins and toast them on one side in the broiler. These toast in just over a minute, so pay attention or you'll have charcoal.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 2

He was a bold man what first et a monkfish

Also called anglerfish by marine biologists and goosefish by some truly confused people and lotte by French chefs, this critter is so ugly you just know they breed in the dark. The name anglerfish makes the most sense from a morphological point of view, but fishmongers in the US usually sell it as monkfish. The creature is little more than a big toothy grin over which dangles a small fleshy lure. Picture a two-foot-wide gash of a mouth with dental work designed by H. P. Lovecraft. Add just enough skull to hold the mouth and a pair of bb's for eyes. Stick a narrow tail onto this critter, just slightly longer than the mouth is wide; clothe it in loose-fitting brown vinyl (not sharpei-loose, but loose enough to look like the fish hasn't had enough to eat). Now, at the very top center of the fish's head, attach a rubbery spine that droops down over the mouth, ending in a knob the size of a WD-40 oil droplet (this is the fish's lure). Give the fish the ability to twitch said rubbery spine. Just for kicks, make it slimy. This is a monkfish.

The monkfish spends its life lying on murky sea bottoms waiting for smaller fish to be attracted to his lure. When something tugs on the lure, the monkfish surges forward and snaps the little critter up. Then he settles back in the mud to wait for the next patsy.

Can you imagine the first fisherman who pulled one of these things up and thought, "I wonder if any of this is good to eat?" He must have been damned hungry.

Fishmongers the world over strip and discard the leathery skin. Even in Japan, where various types of fish skin are delicacies, no one has figured out a way to make this stuff palatable. In fact, most of the fish is discarded. In Europe and the United states, the only portion generally used are the two strips of bone-free flesh that run parallel to the monkfish spine. In Japan, gourmet chefs are as likely to throw out the flesh along with the bones. As far as they're concerned, the only important part of the monkfish is the liver, which they sometimes call the foie gras of the sea (I've also heard this claimed of stingray liver). I've only tasted monkfish liver once, and I found it extremely bitter, metallic and, well, liverish (in my lexicon that means nasty).

In all fairness, I should admit that I had cooked the liver before I tasted it. The preferred preparation in Japan is as sashimi (called ankimo), which I have not tried and probably never will. If you like that sort of thing, you'll have to either move to Japan or specifically request it from your fish monger because--in the US and Europe--they usually throw it out with the bones. Personally, I can't see the logic in eating the toxic waste filter of a bottom-dweller, especially raw.

Though lotte has been consumed in France for centuries, monkfish only became popular in the US back in the 1980s when stylish seafood establishments began touting it as "poorman's lobster." Monkfish tastes nothing like lobster ( I think the flavor is vaguely reminiscent of cashews), but the flesh does have a similar texture when it's cooked. Raw monkfish is somewhat gummy (not at all similar to lobster), making it unpleasant as sashimi or carpaccio.

I haven't done the necessary chemical analyses to verify this, but I would guess that monkfish is fairly high in gluconate and nearly devoid of TAME. I base these guesses on two aspects of the flesh: (1) a distinctly MSG-like taste and (2) no fishy smell (TMA from the breakdown of TMAO--see The Secret Language of Fish, Volume One). Whatever the cause of the flavor, monkfish flesh is delightfully rich and flavorful even though it is extremely low in fat. Despite these positive characteristics, I have found monkfish somewhat less forgiving than I expected in preparation.

A few points worth noting about monkfish preparation:

1. Ignore the references that tell you you can use monkfish as a substitute for lobster or scallops. No matter what you do, it will remain monkfish, and monkfish is not as sweet as lobster or scallops.
2. Remove the grey membrane from the fillets before you cook it. Remove all of the membrane. It not only shrinks like the silverskin on a pork tenderloin, it tastes foul
3. The thin layer of purplish-pink flesh surrounding the white fillet meat (and the thick red parallel vein therein) tastes pretty much the same as the white flesh when it cooks, but it turns grey and remains a bit gummy. Removing it will improve your presentation and will not significantly reduce the quantity of flesh.
4. Don't barbecue or grill this fish. Its low fat content guarantees it will stick to the grill.
5. Whether steaming, broiling, sautéing, poaching, or roasting, cook the fillets whole. If you want medallions, slice the fish after you cook it. If you slice the fillets into smaller pieces, they lose a lot of flavor with the juices.

I've already listed the range of cooking methods and noted that monkfish is crappy raw, but I haven't listed my favorite treatment: pickling. Monkfish makes a remarkable ceviche. About a year ago, while trying to convince a couple of coworkers to be a bit more courageous in their food choices, I brought some samples of ceviche mixto to work and passed out samples in ramekins. The ceviche included only three types of seafood: gulf shrimp, bay scallops, and monkfish. Everyone had their favorites. Princess V prefers the shrimp. A few others preferred the scallops. The majority, to my surprise, preferred the monkfish.

Ceviche Mixto With Monkfish

dramatis personae


one half pound 24-count shrimp, shelled and deveined
one half pound bay scallops
one three-quarter-pound monkfish fillet
a glass or ceramic bowl
one quart cold water
one quarter cup salt
juice from six large limes (or ten small or sixteen key limes)
zest of one lemon
one medium white onion
two roma tomatoes, 1/2 inch dice
one serrano pepper (two if you like it hot), seeded and minced
one garlic clove, minced
a handful of cilantro, torn
sea salt to taste

preparation notes

Yes, damnit, it has to be a glass or ceramic bowl. Metal bowls will make the ceviche taste like metal. Wood and plastics will be permanently flavored by the ceviche.

The shrimp, scallops, and fillet have to be as fresh as possible. Previously frozen bay scallops will taste bitter. The fillet is easy: it should look glossy and wet and should have no odor. If it looks the least bit dry, you don't want it. The shrimp present the greatest difficulty and the best chance to alienate your fish monger. The shrimp tails should be firm, the shells should feel solid, and the legs should be intact and solid--anything else is not fresh. Stale shrimp, like stale or previously frozen scallops, will taste bitter. They also have a muddy texture.

If you can't find decent bay scallops, good sea scallops are terrific (they're just more expensive and have to be cut up). In either case, remove the tough bit of foot from each scallop and discard it.

Remove the grey membrane and the purplish flesh from the fillet and cut it into half-inch cubes. Combine the fish, scallops, and shrimp in the glass bowl with the water and salt. Let the seafood brine for at least ten minutes while you do the rest of the prep.

Remove the lemon zest in toothpick-sized strips. Remove any pulp from the zest.

Peel the onion and slice it in half; then, slice two thin (2 or 3 millimeters) slices from each half. Four thin, round disks of onion. Set these aside. Dice the rest of the onion (1/4" dice).

Once everything is appropriately diced and minced and the brining is finished, pour the seafood into a strainer or colander and rinse it lightly. Rinse out the bowl.

Add the seafood, lime juice, zest, and vegetables (except for the onion slices) to the bowl and mix it thoroughly. Cover as much of the surface of the ceviche as possible with the four onion slices. Press down gently on the surface of the ceviche to be certain everything is soaking in the lime juice. Cover the bowl with cellophane and refrigerate for at least an hour and a half (overnight is better).

When you're ready to serve the ceviche, taste it to determine whether it needs any salt (the seafood may have absorbed enough in the brining). Pour off the majority of the juice before serving the ceviche.

I serve this with either cold flour tortillas, fresh corn tortillas, or slices of baguette. Guacamole is also an excellent complement.

Twice-Cooked Monkfish with Basil-Lime Hollandaise

I just tried this one out on Princess V the other night. We stuffed ourselves to groaning, polishing off the sauce. I considered this something of a no-brainer because Hollandaise/Bearnaise-type butter-and-egg-yolk sauces match well with monkfish, as do citrus and anise-like mints (basil, tarragon, fennel).

The quantities here should feed four.

dramatis personae

two one pound monkfish fillets
one teaspoon olive oil
one stick (8 tablespoons) butter
four egg yolks
juice of one large lime
dash sea salt
dash white pepper
one tablespoon fresh basil chiffonade

preparation notes

The twice-cooking in this case consists of sautéing the fillets to a medium rare point and broiling one side for three minutes to finish the fillets and give them a bit of crispy finish.

To double boil or not to double boil. This is a tough question for any would-be Hollandaise sauce maker, but I guess it depends on your level of control and the number of distractions in your kitchen. I use a double boiler. It's just too easy to burn the sauce otherwise. Be aware, however, that a double boiler will not prevent your sauce from overcooking or breaking. So, when you use a double boiler, have a dish towel on a nearby counter so that you can have a place to remove the upper pot to as it becomes necessary.

Here's my process; it produces a consistently velvety Hollandaise:

1. Put the lime juice, salt, and pepper in a ramekin in the double-boiler. Heat the double-boiler just to the boiling point and then turn down the heat slightly.
2. Remove the ramekin from the double-boiler. Whisk the egg yokes into the double-boiler.
3. Pour in the juice from the ramekin, and continue to whisk the yolks until they just begin to thicken (they should be slightly thicker than maple syrup). If you're used to making traditional Hollandaise (with lemon) or Bearnaise, don't be surprised if this sauce froths quite a bit; the lime juice is more acidic than most lemon juice or vinegars.
4. Remove the yolks from the heat (put the upper pot on the towel), continuing to whisk the yolks while you pour in one third of the butter.
5. Return the pot to the heat, whisking vigorously (from here on, anytime the sauce is over the heat, whisk vigorously).
6. Once the butter is completely incorporated, remove the sauce from the heat and whisk in another third of the butter.
7. Repeat step 5.
8. Repeat step 6 for the last of the butter.
9. Repeat step 5 again.
10. Once the butter is completely incorporated, remove the sauce from the heat. Whisk the sauce for a last vigorous minute or so while the pot cools a little.

Slice the fillets into medallions and arrange them however you like. Drizzle the sauce over the top. Serve this dish with rice, potatoes, or a crusty bread.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 1

Okay, so, I lied. As a diver and long-time dedicated fish nerd, I can assure you that fish--except in Dave Barry rants and Disney cartoons--do not have a secret language. They swim, eat, poop, and make more fish. They do not converse. What I'm really after here is the secret language of fish mongers and poissoniers, but that makes a less interesting title. So sue me.

I used to think I would be struck dumb if ever I saw a lucid explanation of how the flavors of various white fish meats compare. James Peterson, in the otherwise brilliant "Fish & Shellfish" describes most white-flesh fish as having a "delicate" flavor. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to think that red snapper, orange roughy, scrod, haddock, pacific halibut, and patagonian toughfish all taste exactly alike? Other, "fishier" tasting fish he describes as strong or moderately strong, which seems to reinforce this idea that all fish taste like degrees of the same thing.

Harold McGee's description (On Food and Cooking) of various fish flesh seems to bear this out. He describes the differences between freshwater and saltwater fish, the differences between dark and light fish meat, and the differences in a few special cases. That's about it. Generally, all white fish meats from the sea contain approximately the same set of chemical compounds. Some have a teeny bit more glutamine, making them richer. Some have more of an oceanic taste.

Is it not possible to differentiate these fish flavors beyond the simple question of how much fishiness they exude? Okay, in fairness to Peterson et al, there actually is a similarity in the flavor of many white-fleshed fish. Differentiating--on a verbal level--between perch, halibut, Patagonian toothfish, flounder, sole, cod, hake, and many others of those that Peterson labels "delicate" is a real bitch. The difference between flounder and cod, for example, is a distinction more of texture than of flavor.

I look back over that last sentence and think, "Well, that's a load of crap." Let's face it: you really can't segregate the chemical element of flavor from the tangible--not entirely. Texture is part of flavor. To that end, I can say that the cod and flounder differ in that the the flakes of cod are larger and have slightly more tooth than flounder. Many descriptions of the difference between various white-fleshed fish provide more detail on distinctions of texture and firmness than chemical differences in taste. This it true in part because the textural differences are easier to see and describe but also because they play a role in picking the proper fish for a particular preparation method. You would not, for example, grill dover sole. The sole would stick to the grill and disintegrate. Cod, on the other hand, can be cooked just about any way you like. Cod has a high enough fat content that you can do little to damage it. Cod, like most fish, dries as it cooks, and the flakes then tend to come apart more readily.

Considerations of delicacy and texture aside, though, is there any difference between various white fish of similar textures and sturdiness? Does it matter whether I use dover sole, lemon sole, gulf flounder, or turbot? They look approximately the same--the all have approximately the same chemical make-up. Don't they taste approximately the same?

And ,what the hell is fishiness, anyway? Anyone who has cooked even a few different types of fish has dealt at some point with this generally unpleasant and exasperatingly inconsistent feature. It's a nasty smell and taste that can have an ammonia component in muscular pelagic fish (tuna, mackerel, mahi-mahi) or elasmobranchs (sharks and rays).

Guarantees of fishiness: poor handling (dirt, water, hand oils), refreezing, too much time out of the freezer, slow freezing. Cooling can be a cause, too. I have found on various occasions that with salmon, mahi-mahi, halibut, and trout, leaving the dish to cool too long after cooking can result in the curse of fishiness. The same thing happens with squid.

The essential culprits in fishiness are amines. Ocean-going fish rely on amines to keep the salt out of their bodies. One of the predominant amines, glutamine, is responsible for the richer savory flavor of saltwater fish over freshwater fish. Snapper is rich in glutamine; walleye pike contains none. Unfortunately, the next most prominent amine, odorless trimethylamine oxide (TMAO) breaks down readily into the nasty, skunky trimethylamine (TMA) that causes the smell most people call fishy. Some fish, like mackerel and sardines, have enough enzymes in their tissue that the TMAO to TMA process begins as soon as air hits the flesh. Others like snapper and monkfish have far less enzymes in their flesh and tend to produce TMA far more slowly.

Sharks, rays, and a few random others like swordfish and mahi mahi rely on urea to control their salt content. Bacteria break down urea into ammonia almost as readily as TMAO becomes TMA.

Okay, but I'm heading off on a tangent. I didn't want to talk about fishy fish at the moment. I wanted to talk about white-meat fish that doesn't suffer much from the fishiness curse. I wanted to discuss four of my favorite fish: red snapper, monkfish, halibut, and mahi mahi. Of the four, halibut is the only truly white-flesh fish. Monkfish flesh has some pink streaks. Fresh red snapper flesh is actually a pale, crystalline pink. Mahi mahi flesh is off-white tending toward a dark rusty color. All four of these cook up (mostly) white. I have occasionally caught a whiff of fishiness from halibut, but generally these are forgiving meats in that you don't have to go out of your way to fight the fishiness (which you have to do in the case of, say, pompano, bonito, mackerel, sardines, and so on).

Me and my nearly invisible glasses

Posted by Hello

My "Little Brown Jug"

Invoking tradition

I don't want to sound like Tevye, here, but I think most of us have some sense of tradition. Even the iconoclasts tend to be Different Just Like Everyone Else. Goths, for instance, dye their hair shoe-polish black and wear gruesome tattoos and pierce body parts in ways that most of us consider shocking, painful, or just plain odd. Most importantly (to my point, that is), they all do these shocking things in a pretty standard, traditional way. If Goth kids wanted to be truly original in their outré fashion statements, they'd wear pale pink chenille, dye their hair strawberry blonde, eschew piercings and kohl, and get tattoos of Care Bears and fluffy bunnies. Of course, then no one would recognize them for the edgy rebels they believe themselves to be.

This same adherence to tradition seems to apply to cooks (including chefs) as well. Even the innovators and rebels tend to rebel within boundaries and with a concern for tradition in mind. Professional culinary curmudgeon Anthony Bourdain, in A Cook's Tour, expresses a certain reasonable disdain for such innovations as monkfish tagine--tagine, after all, is desert fare. Who ever heard of monkfish night at the oasis? On the other hand, Bourdain has nothing but praise for Thomas Keller's French Laundry creations like lobster navarin and the salmon chop. Seems those creations should be just as liable to ridicule; lobsters have nothing much in common with lamb, and salmon don't really have chops.

I don't mean to pick on Tony. I think most people have what appear contradictory reactions to such breaks with tradition. Besides, he seems to be right. Monkfish tagine would get nothing but sneers from connoisseurs of authentic Arab cuisine, but Keller's dishes are generally just considered playful and clever. (Caveat: somewhere, someone hates Thomas Keller for creating so many dishes that play on comfort food themes. No matter the subject of revision or how well it's executed, look hard enough and you'll find a curmudgeon who just can't stomach the revision in question.)

Besides, I know that I also tend to be of two minds about culinary traditions. I have been known to insist, for example, that Eggs Benedict consists of Hollandaise over a poached egg on Canadian bacon on an English muffin. Period. I know that many restaurants have created delightful variations on this theme--smoked salmon or dried chorizo in place of the Canadian bacon, crumpets or tortillas in place of the English muffin, Habañero or lime instead of lemon in the Hollandaise. Those creations are not Eggs Benedict. They may be delicious, fascinating, clever, and even nutritious, but they are not Eggs Benedict.

Sure, most restaurants offering such variations at least tell you in their menus that what you're ordering is a variation. Chez Zee in Austin offers several of these variations in their weekend brunch menu, and I have no objection to their offering a Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict. The name tells me that I'm not getting the traditional dish. On the other hand, it thoroughly irks me (and my wife even more so) that they label the traditional Eggs Benedict "Canadian" to keep the servers from confusing the orders. If there actually is such a thing as a Canadian Eggs Benedict, it probably contains maple syrup or some other ingredient that differentiates it from a traditional Eggs Benedict.

Oft repeated interchange at Chez Zee:

Mrs: "I'll have the Eggs Benedict."
Server: "Which Eggs Benedict?"
Mrs: "The original Eggs Benedict."
Server: "Would that be the Canadian Eggs Benedict?"
Mrs (sharply annunciating): "Eggs Benedict!"

On a similar note, one of my favorite Austin restaurants, the Castle Hill Café, recently gave me cause for irritation by misapplying a traditional name. Generally, five aspects of Castle Hill appeal to me:

1. the chef is a genius who does a remarkable job of balancing simple flavors (sweet, salty, spicy, tart, bitter), complex flavors (fruity, smoky, citrusy, piney, beefy), and textures f(crunchy, smooth--oh, you get the idea)
2. the menu fuses Mexican, European, Arabic, and Asian cuisines in exciting and innovative creations
3. except for a few standards in the appetizer and dessert offerings, the menu changes every two to four weeks
4. the service is outstanding
5. the prices are reasonable

On my last visit there--that second reason notwithstanding--I found myself leaving with a strangely dissatisfied feeling. The food was delicious, but it had thwarted my expectations. The item I ordered was listed thus:

Seared Gulf Red Snapper Filet with Sauce Veracruzano, Chipotle Puree,
Olive-Caper Relish, and Corn Pudding Tamale $21.95
A seared Gulf red snapper filet served in a sauce made from roasted tomatillos, charred poblanos, white wine, pepitas, garlic, and cilantro. With a chipotle puree, olive-caper relish, and corn pudding tamale.

I read the description, so I knew that the dish included a tomatillo sauce, a chipotle chilli purée, and a relish of olives and capers, but I was still surprised by the dish. The two things that really bugged me were something extra and something missing.

The something extra was that the relish contained sweet corn. Bad choice. Somebody at Castle Hill must have been watching Bobby Flay. News flash, Flayites: sweet corn does not make everything taste either more Mexican or more Southwestern. Sweet corn makes everything taste like sweet corn. Sweet corn was a poor choice for this particular relish because the sweetness overwhelmed the salty tartness of the olives and capers.

The something missing was a primary sauce component. Although the two sauces were tasty, they did not a traditional Veracruzano make. The missing item--the item I had subconsciously assumed would be there when I read "Sauce Veracruzano"--was tomatoes. (And, no, tomatillos are not tomatoes. They're a variety of gooseberry. Delicious in their own right but not tomatoes.) It would be easy to dismiss my objection as a misreading on my part--the menu did not, after all, claim that the dish included tomatoes. Au contraire, mes amis, the menu said Veracruzano.

Overall, then, the snapper dish was tasty, but because it was not what I expected, I did not enjoy the experience. When you label a dish, whether you are making a traditional dish or some wild, exotic variation, you have to consider the ramifications of the name. Sure, you can make curried beef, curried tuna, curried yams, curried rutabagas; but anything labeled "curry" had better contain enough of the spices generally associated with a curry to give it a curry-like flavor. Similarly, anything labeled sushi should probably contain vinegared rice (although you might be able to get away with some other starchy element as long as you also used raw fish and nori). Likewise, if you are willing to stand up to the scorn of the aficianados and want to try monkfish tagine, you'd better damned well be slow-cooking the monkfish in a covered pot with a proponderance of Moroccan ingredients. Anything else leaves your audience feeling cheated.

So, damnit, if you call it Veracruzano, it has to contain capers and tomatoes. Anything else is a just wrong.

I came home from Castle Hill that night and made up my shopping list for the next night's dinner, which you can bet included the makings for

Huachinango Veracruzano (Red Snapper, Veracruz-style)

dramatis personae

two tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
two red snapper filets (about a pound each)
one half cup chicken stock
one half cup white wine
four Roma tomatoes--cored, seeded, and diced
one chilli arbol--seeded and minced
two tablespoons non-pareil capers

preparation notes

Huachinango Veracruzano is obscenely simple to prepare, expecially if you let your fish monger do all the work for you. Be sure the snapper fillets are fresh and thoroughly scaled. When you get them home, run your hand over the skin from tail to head to be sure the monger has not left any scales (if you find any, you should be able to pluck these out with your fingers). Next, each fillet skin-side down and run your fingers down along the seam that runs from head to tail between the back and belly meat. If you find any bones, hold down the filet with one hand and pluck the bones with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. This is probably the hardest work you'll do for this dish.

When you are seeding the arbol, you might want to wear rubber gloves.

In a non-stick sauté pan over a medium flame, heat the olive oil to the point of shimmering, and put in the fillets, skin-side down. Allow the fillets to cook until they are opaque about halfway through (this time varies quite a bit with thickness--four minutes or more). Pour in the white wine and cook until most of the liquid is gone. Pour in the stock and continue to braise the fillets until they are done (the meat is opaque, and at the thickest point, shows no pink between flakes when separated with the tip of a knife).

Taking care not to damage the skin, gently remove the fillets from the cooking liquid to a serving platter. Add the tomatoes and dried pepper to the cooking liquid still in the pan and wilt the tomatoes (about a minute). Sprinkle capers over the fillets and pour the tomatoes and cooking liquid over all.

Rice (especially saffroned rice, Mexican fried rice, or rice with a little achiote) makes a good accompaniment.

What jug?

So, if you noticed the title of this article, you're probably wondering what the hell Huachinango Veracruzano has to do with a "Little Brown Jug." Nothing, really, but it does have a great deal to do with messing with traditions. In my particular case, it has a lot to do with Texas chili.

Lemme 'splain:

Big Band leader Glenn Miller supposedly hated the 19th century minstrel song "Little Brown Jug." Can't say I blame him. This odd little number, written in 1869 by J. E. Winner, often taught as a children's song, and revitalized in the thirties, is a peppy ditty that deals with the ruinous effects of alcoholism. What seems to have bugged Miller, however, was not the incongruity of didactic lyrics accompanying an upbeat number so much as the 1930s popularity of this melodically simple tune. He considered the tune purest musical pablum. So why did he arrange, perform, and record a song he hated? One theory says that it was a favorite of his wife's. No one knows, really. Miller left no written record explaining his reason for turning this insipid little song into a blaring, brassy, Big Band standard.

I think I know the truth, though. I think he did it precisely because he despised the song. In reworking the tune, Miller effectively killed the original. Go searching for a copy of Little Brown Jug today, sixty years after Miller's death, and you'll probably find a hundred variations on Miller's arrangement for every pre-Miller version. Miller remade "Little Brown Jug" into something he could stomach.

I understand the impulse. I have similar feelings about many songs, stories, movies, and culinary creations. If I had the time and the skill, I would re-make all of my pet annoyances in forms I find more palatable (think Return of the Jedi with no Ewoks).

That's what I had in mind a few weeks back when I decided to take on Texas chili. It's a sad thing for a Texan to have to admit, but I really never cared much for chili. I can stomach some of them, but--well, frankly, I'd rather not. Setting aside as irrelevant the execrable idea of adding beans to chili, and ignoring the ravings of some truly fanatical Texas chili purists who insist that no tomatoes be used, much about Texas chili just doesn't work for me. After pondering this matter for some time, I decided that the following aspects of this traditional Texas food were the primary offenders:

1. Too much cumin. I find cumin acceptable in minute quantities or when appropriately moderated by other spices (as in Garam Masala). Alone and in too large a quantity, it overwhelms every other note in the chili.
2. The crock pot thing--part one. Overcooked, stewed dishes always strike me as bland. All the flavor gets cooked out of both the meat and the vegetables. The meat tastes like yarn and the onions typically wind up with a texture like slimy old Jello.
3. The crock pot thing--part two. Prolonged cooking of all the elements together doesn't blend them so much as obliterate them. I might taste some onion, but I rarely taste any garlic. Individual chilli peppers lose all distinction, which is tragic.
4. Crappy meat. Okay, so tenderloin or prime rib would be silly in such a heavily spiced blend. On the other end of the spectrum, chuck and round are pretty nasty in this form.
5. One-note chillis and one-note tomatoes--also a tragic loss. I wanted the best qualities of both fresh and stewed tomatoes, and I wanted the best qualities of both fresh and dried chillis.

So, I knew right off that I would be doing a few things differently. When I began addressing these elements one-by-one, I came up with the meal event that I call Deconstructed Chili. I wanted a technique that would present the best elements of the chili--all of those elements--in their best possible light. When I served this dish the first time, I thought my friends and family might object. I figured I would at least get some pursed lips and quizzical eyebrow action. I was pleasantly surprised at how well this went over. Instead of suspicion, I got raves.

Deconstructed chili

The following fed three adults and two tween-aged children.

dramatis personae

two one-pound, one-and-a-half-inch-thick top sirloin steaks--trimmed
one bottle dark hoppy beer
juice of four medium limes
two teaspoons sea salt
two teaspoons achiote paste
one fresh poblano pepper--seeded and diced
four garlic cloves--peeled and sliced
one sweet onion
ten premium chipotle peppers
four mulatto peppers
peanut oil
one pound cherry tomatoes
one half cup beef stock
one teaspoon Mexican oregano (fresh or dried)
one half teaspoon fresh thyme
one half pound Monterey Jack cheese, sliced in wedges
two cups masa harina (dry or prepared)
water

blender
wire mesh strainer or sieve
grill, grill pan, or broiler
iron skillet or comal
tortilla press

preparation notes

This is more a meal than just a dish, so I have to note first off that this meal requires a good chunk of time, primarily because the steak needs to marinate overnight.

A few of the ingredients may be difficult to find, so let's talk about substitutes.

Chipotle and mulatto peppers are somewhat different from most dried chilli peppers. Most dried chillis (arbol, pasilla, guajillo, New Mexico, cascabel) are just that: dried. Those chillis all start out as fairly thin-skinned fresh fruit. Chipotles start as jalapenos. Mulattos start out as ripe poblanos (as opposed to anchos, which start as green poblanos). Jalapeno and poblano peppers are too fleshy to just dry in the sun (or in a drying kiln). They rot instead of drying. So to get a dried chilli from these fleshy fruits, the jalapenos and poblanos are smoked. The result is a richer, more complex flavor.

I consider the smoked chillis a key ingredient in Deconstructed Chili.

I start with dry chipotle chillis for my chipotle purée, but if you can't find them, I suppose you can use the canned ones (they're not as smoky tasting). On the bright side, if you use the canned chipotles, you won't need to soak and cook them prior to puréeing them.

I don't know of any reasonable substitute for the mulatto chillis. If you can't find mulattos, anchos are the closest and are more widely available. If you can't find anchos or mulattos, use the darkest, richest dry chillis you can find.

The achiote paste might also be difficult to find outside of Texas and Mexico. If you have to use a substitute, I would recommend a savory chilli-based steak rub (okay, I'm guessing).

I also ought to say something about the tortillas. I know my wife and daughter consider the homemade corn tortillas a key element in this presentation. Corn tortillas are not too difficult once you get the hang of them, but they're a pain in the tuchus the first few times. One important suggestion: use prepared masa harina. The prepared stuff contains a small quantity of lard and has thoroughly absorbed the necessary amounts of moisture and oil. I was surprised to find that most of the directions available on the Internet call for masa and water with no lard.

The easiest way to explain this meal is to start with an understanding of the final product. Deconstructed Chili on the table consists of the following components:

1. broiled, marinated, chilli-rubbed, thin sliced rare sirloin
2. onion, garlic, poblano sauté
3. tomatoes wilted in tomato-beef sauce
4. chipotle chilli purée
5. mulatto chilli purée
6. Monterey Jack wedges
7. fresh corn tortillas

Note for the heat-intolerant: the chipotle chilli purée is hot. Poblanos are variable, so the sauté might have a tiny bit of a bite. The rest should be fairly mild.

Timing all of these things to come out together is rough. I recommend the following order of preparation:

1. Marinate the steaks.
2. Prepare the chilli purées. You can do this up to a week in advance. This stuff keeps remarkably well in the refrigerator.
3. Rub the steaks and set them aside.
4. Make the onion sauté and set it aside in a covered bowl.
5. Make the tomato-beef sauce and seed the tomatoes (don't wilt them yet) and set them aside.
6. If you're making the tortillas, roll the masa balls and preheat your skillet (or comal if you're a purist).
7. Preheat your broiler, grill, or grilling pan for the steaks.
8. Cook the first half of the tortillas.
9. Start the steaks.
10. Cook the second half of the tortillas while the steaks are cooking.
11. Set the steak aside to cool for a minute, and wilt the tomatoes.
12. Slice the steaks.
13. Serve everything.

detailed construction instructions

1. Marinate the steaks:

Place the steaks in a wide bowl with three of the garlic cloves, the diced poblano, one half-teaspoon of the achiote paste and a teaspoon of the sea salt. Pour in the beer (I use Negro Modelo) and the juice from two of the limes. Cover this concoction and leave it in the fridge overnight.

2. Prepare the chilli purées:

The two chilli purées differ only in that I add a tablespoon of lime juice to the mulatto and a garlic clove to the chipotle. Be sure you keep the chillis and their resulting purées separate. Otherwise the steps are identical:

1. Remove the stems and seeds. Yes, I know, the seeds are a source of heat. Great. They're also bitter. The chipotles have plenty of heat in the ribs. Trust me on this: throw out the seeds.
2. Place the chillis in a small sauce pan with just enough water to cover them. Heat the chillis until they change color (the chipotles will go from brown to dark burnt orange; the mulattos will go from black to a tobaccoey reddish brown). Remove the chillis from the water but DON'T THROW OUT THE LIQUID.
3. Drop the chillis into a blender and add the lime juice (if you're puréeing the mulattos) or one sliced garlic clove (if you're puréeing the chipotles) and a pinch of sea salt (probably no more than a quarter teaspoon).
4. Blend the chillis, adding the reserved liquid from the sauce pan as necessary. Once the purée achieves a uniform consistency (a little thicker than prepared mustard), pour it into a mesh strainer (or onto a sieve) and strain the purée. This leaves behind the papery outer skin.

Cover the purées and refrigerate them until the other elements of the chili are ready to serve. The mulatto purée should be dark-brown-to-black, smoky, and a bit tart. The chipotle purée should be reddish-brown, smoky, and hot.

3. Rub the steaks

Not much to say about this. Remove the steaks from the marinade and leave them alone for a few minutes to dry them off. Rub the steaks with one teaspoon of achiote paste. Leave the last half teaspoon of achiote for the tomatoes. Brush the steaks with a tiny bit of peanut oil and set them aside for now.

4. Make the onion sauté

Hey, this is a snap. Preheat a little peanut oil in a sauté pan over a medium-high flame. Strain the onions, garlic, and poblanos from the marinade (reserve a half cup of the liquid and throw out the rest) and sauté them in the peanut oil until the onions begin to clarify. Add the reserved half cup of marinade and the Mexican oregano. Cook down the liquid. Pour the sauté into a bowl, cover it, and set it aside.

5. The first half of the tomato stuff

Seed the tomatoes. I found that the quickest wat to do this is to cut them in half perpendicular to the core and scoop out the innards. It goes pretty fast. Set aside half of the seeded tomatoes. Combine the other half with the beef stock and cook it over a medium heat until the tomatoes are thoroughly wilted. Strain this concoction through a wire mesh strainer or sieve to remove the skins and any stray bits of remaining fiber. Return the liquid to the sauce pan and add the thyme. Over a low flame, reduce the tomato-beef broth by half. Remove this from the flame until you are ready to wilt the remaining tomatoes (just before serving).

6. If you're making the tortillas, roll the masa balls and preheat your skillet (or comal if you're a purist). If you're not making tortillas, the rest of this is a snap.

7. Preheat your broiler, grill, or grilling pan for the steaks.

Hey, to each his own. I'm sure a back yard barbecue would turn out a fine version of this dish. I prefer a grill pan.

8. Cook the first half of the tortillas.

Here's the routine that works for me, using a dry skillet over a medium high flame:

1. thirty seconds on one side
2. thirty seconds on the other side
3. thirty seconds again on the first side, this time pressing down a bit with the spatula. When the tortilla puffs, I know it's going to turn out right.
4. Once more on the second side for thirty seconds.

9. Start the steaks.

Four minutes on each side produced some beautiful medium rare steaks.

10. Cook the second half of the tortillas while the steaks are cooking.

Second verse, same as the first.

11. Set the steaks aside to cool for a minute, and wilt the tomatoes.

You don't want the steaks to cool too much, so this should go pretty fast. Heat the tomato-beef sauce to bubbling. Add the remaining tomatoes. Stir them a couple times and remove them from the flame after thirty seconds. Pour them into a serving bowl. The residual heat will be sufficient to wilt the tomatoes.

12. Slice the steaks.

Thin. No more than a quarter inch thick.

13. Serve everything.

You can probably come up with a number of ways to do this. I fanned the steaks over a bed of the onion sauté and ran thin parallel stripes of the purées down the steak. The tomatoes, cheese, tortillas, and remaining purées, I served on the side. Guacamolé makes an excellent addition.

I didn't include instructions for making tortillas. The process is fairly simple in concept, but it takes practice. I also didn't say when to make the guacamolé or slice the cheese, but I'm sure you can work that out.

Not Quite a Phoenix

Iron Chef is Dead--Long Live the Iron Chef

'Twould be nice. I realize that expecting anyone to recreate so rich and complex an experience as Fuji Television's long-running Iron Chef series is asking quite a lot, but the Food Network folks are now on their third attempt. We have to either give them an A for effort or a D for slow learner. This latest version actually has some promise, but some of the production is just wrong. No, make that Just Wrong. Perhaps even Just Wrong-o-rama. I don't know how many other concerned viewers have written to tell them they're doing it wrong, but if you're one of the concerned and you would like to see the Iron Chef tradition live on in some palatable form other than reruns, please email the Iron Chef America producers at http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/show_ia/text/0,1976,FOOD_16696_19539,00.html

with your concerns. Maybe enough of us acting in concert can work a Star Trek number on these guys.

What follows is the text of my letter to the producers of Iron Chef America.

A letter to Iron Chef America

Like the majority of your audience, I'm a long-standing fan of the original Fuji Television Iron Chef series. As with most adherents, I was saddened by Fuji's decision to end the series. The original Iron Chef fulfilled several needs for me in that it provided education and inspiration in an entertaining package. I see that much work has gone into the task of reproducing that experience in the latest iteration of Iron Chef America, and--while I realize that you do not want to simply ape the original, I would hate to see this grand effort die for missing some of the key elements that made the original series such a powerful, long-lived staple of culinary programming. If I'm lucky, you've already received quite a few letters expressing the same set of concerns that I'm about to outline.

Let me begin by saying that I think the stadium, costumes, logos, chefs, and announcer are all outstanding choices. I have no qualms with these elements of the program. (Okay, I'm gilding the lily a bit. I find one of the Iron Chefs a bit grating and the Vogue food critic seems needlessly contrary, but I think those are matters of personal preference unrelated to the overall reception of the show.) Thus, I believe the foundation of the Iron Chef America to be sound. I should note that several of my friends do not share my optimism. They are more disheartened by the differences than heartened by the similarities and innovations.

I wish I could be as positive about your host. Mark Dacascos may be a fine actor, but his chairman persona is simply annoying. Who cares if he can do backflips or has "a martial arts black belt" (a statement that most of us read as "a wannabe who never got his black belt")? The martial arts and acrobatics footage have nothing to do with cooking, nothing to do with Iron Chef, nothing to do with the show. Likewise, that stupid karate chop gesture and Dacascos's bellicose delivery of the command, "Allez cuisine" is completely out of place. It looks silly. It looks like someone needs to translate the French for Mr. Dacascos. One more persona glitch, why do the chairman and Alton Brown keep referring to Kaga of the Fuji series as the new chairman's uncle? Without frequent reiteration of a backstory, the claim sounds hollow and pretentious. In any case, the nephew backstory is convoluted, contrived, and heavy-handed. It doesn't explain the new chairman's motivation. It doesn't add anything to the story. Do yourselves a big favor and drop this.

As I noted, I think Alton Brown is a fine choice for expert announcer. Through his Good Eats program, Alton has developed a kind of Food Network credibility as well as a degree of familiarity. I do not, however, believe that anyone should be required to do the job of three announcers. The original Fuji Iron Chef used three announcers in emulation of sports programs like Monday Night Football because they knew that the kind of banter helps fuel the audience's interest in the "game." Those programs use one play-by-play announcer (Fuji Iron Chef's Kenji Fukui), one expert commentator (Fuji Iron Chef's Yukio Hattori) and one color announcer (one or two guest judges). Alton can speculate on the dishes, but he can't argue with himself (well, not convincingly).

Nor should Alton be bringing floor commentator Kevin Brauch into his discussions. Brauch is having enough trouble just keeping up with the goings on down in the stadium. He seems to be doing a little better this season at keeping track of all the ingredients, but that's not saying much. Brauch should continue to improve with time. If not, you might want to consider replacing him with someone who can pronounce the names of the ingredients and of their chefs.

Getting away from personalities for a moment, I find several parts of the competition aspect of Iron Chef America unsatisfying. For example, why is the chairman choosing the Iron Chef to battle the challenger? This looks wrong. I'm sure you have several logistic reasons for pre-selecting the Iron Chef, but if you don't let the challengers make their own selections, the game looks rigged. Besides, you've made quite a big deal in your advertising of the challenge presented by the secret ingredient. Maintaining the surprise-defender tactic from the Fuji series makes the whole spectacle even more suspenseful--who will compete tonight?

Also, unlike the original show, you opted to spell out the point breakdown. I think this a fine idea, but the point categories and your presentation of the results just don't work. One quarter of the points for plating and appearance--that's fine. One half for taste--okay, but what do you mean? Good taste? That's entirely subjective. Establish and describe a reasonable rubric. How about something a bit more specific and slightly less subjective? For instance, the judges in the Fuji Iron Chef series frequently commented that they expected to see dishes presented in Battle Random Ingredient to focus on and exemplify Random Ingredient, not just make it taste good. Anything can be made to taste good with enough tasty stuff piled onto it. I would be more impressed by someone making flavorful use of the bitterness, say, of a Random Ingredient than by someone making a flavorful dish that masks that same bitterness or simply smothers it in truffles. The best dishes in Fuji Iron Chef shows were often said to lend depth to the selected ingredient, and the sets of dishes on a theme were often praised for demonstrating different attributes of that same ingredient.

My problem with the presentation of points is that, while you do break down the points according to category, you do not break down the points by judge. This looks like a poor attempt at hiding the subjectivity of the judging. I, for one, want to know how much of the difference in judging is due to one rogue judge. When Morimoto presents a set of seafood dishes and one of the judges says, "I don't like raw fish," I figure I have pretty good reason to believe the anti-sushi judge is unduly influencing the outcome. If the judges know that their scores will be presented with their names attached, they might be a bit more careful to push some of their biases aside.

Oh, one other complaint about the judging: that Tubular-Bells-Lite noise you play during the tasting sequences has to go. What is that, the sound track from one of Tinkerbell's wet dreams? Ick. Please eliminate it before you send someone up a tower with a high-powered rifle.

One last item that I find discomfiting in the competition is the competitors plating only one of each item. I understand that this gives them a little more time to perfect each dish, but think about this: the old Fuji Iron Chefs always plated one item for each judge and an extra for the chairman (except for the occasional group or family style presentation of a soup, stew, roast, or casserole item). The switch to one of each dish may have been meant to look clever and innovative, but it fails. It looks wimpy. It looks like an admission that, "Well, we can't do what the old Iron Chefs did, but we can almost do it."

Ultimately, I think that's the one stance you want to avoid in all aspects of Iron Chef America. In no way should your presentation read like a second-rate Iron Chef. Overall, I don't think it does, but these few persnickety details are clouding the overall appearance. Correct these items, and I think Iron Chef America can easily be a popular, successful, and entertaining redux of Fuji Television's Iron Chef.

Thank you for your time.

My Inner PETA

Shrimp and Chicken Piccatas

I know I'd never survive as a vegetarian. It's not that I simply can't live without meat (although, with my history of weight loss, I'd make one emaciated vegetarian), nor am I of the Tony Bourdain philosophy that they can have my steaks when they pry them from my cold dead arthrosclerotic fingers. My problem with going vegetarian is that I'm pretty sure the gas would kill me. It would at least force me into a celibate lifestyle.

Frankly, if dietary choice were simply a question of ethics, I'd have a rough time. I love animals. Sincerely. This is not a setup for a W.C. Fields joke.

Don't get me wrong. I won't be throwing away my leather boots and running out to join PETA. Although I admire the sentiment and the conviction of animal rights activists, PETA members always strike me as a bit off kilter. Maybe it was that incident a few years ago when PETA members demonstrated that life, at times, is just one big recycled WKRP Cincinnati rerun. Just before Thanksgiving, on a major freeway overpass, a group of PETAzoids freed a bunch of domestic turkeys. Turkeys are none too bright, though, and the birds just stood there in the open cages. No doubt the gobblers just thought it was feeding time. The PETA members, wanting their gesture to look more dramatic for the captive audience of rush hour traffic streaming past below them, grabbed the birds and threw them into the air. Wouldn't you expect at least one of that crowd of animal lovers to know that domestic turkeys are flightless? Well, the lucky birds just landed on the bridge with a thud. Sadly, several of the birds fell into the oblivious stream of traffic below.

So, I do apologize if this comment ruffles any PETA members' feathers, but on the whole you guys are about as sharp as a sack of wet mice. Perhaps you should eat more fish; some nutritionists consider it brain food.

As I suggested, however, I do understand the whole concept of guilt over eating animals. Like many modern omnivores, I am conflicted in my quests for a fine cut of meat or the correct fish for dinner. I see this effect at work all the time. Some people just can't bear the thought of ordering the death of a lobster. They're perfectly willing to eat a lobster tail, they just don't want to be directly involved in its death. An even more common effect is the Vein That Ruins Dinner. One person at the table cuts into his steak and diagonally opens a vein, allowing a few drops of fluid to bleed onto the plate. I've actually seen people lose a meal over such an incident.

Also, of course, many of us learn to think of some animals in ways that make it difficult to see them as food. My foster daughter, the champion horsewoman, becomes incensed at the mention of horsemeat. Similarly, most Americans are disgusted at the thought of cooked dog. One of my most recently developed quirks is a refusal to eat grouper. I've been diving for a few years, now, and I can't help thinking of grouper as friendly, inquisitive critters.

And then there's veal. What can I safely say about veal? I Googled the term and immediately found the usual complaints about veal calves being raised in slatted paddocks designed to restrict their movement (thereby limiting muscle development) and about the iron-poor, antibiotic-rich milk substitutes fed the calves to get that wan "milk-fed" look you see in the supermarkets. Back in the eighties, many markets simply stopped carrying veal, citing either the unhealthiness of the meat or animal cruelty. I know a quite a few non-vegetarians who won't eat it, and I'm still not comfortable cooking or eating it either. I don't mind killing my food. I'm not even squeamish about cooking with fresh, wriggling lobsters or eels. Torturing my food is another matter. As far as I can see, the intent to kill an animal does not justify torturing it.

Even if not produced by torture and antibiotics, veal is an odd meat. Oh, sure, it's beef--young, but still beef. The flavor (as I recall from a few decades back) is far milder than adult beef, and the color attests to that mildness. Because it lacks much in the way of fat, many preparation methods require either the addition of fat from other sources (wrapping in a fat net for roasting, for instance) or inclusion of a healthy quantity of marrow rich bones (thus the necessary shoulder in osso bucco). Frankly, veal is so mild that many of the traditional recipes seem to be designed to give the meat some sort of flavor. I recall that I enjoyed the my first several veal piccata, but even as a teenager I recognized that the flavor in the dish was the result of the butter, lemon, artichokes, and capers. The veal and stock provided nothing more than a canvas. The veal components provided the protein base and none of the flavor. This proved true for every veal cutlet dish I ever tried.

[On a side note, I am toying with the idea of making veal stock. Hey, I said I was conflicted. I believe veal bones make more sense than beef bones as a source for stock because of the lower ossified bone content. More on this later, if I'm lucky.]

I guess it's no surprise, then, that so many Italian restaurants in the US offer chicken scallopini and piccata in lieu of (or as an alternative to) the veal versions. It really makes very little difference to most diners. Chicken breasts, unless browned and boosted with the proper flavor enhancers (for chicken, the best amplifiers I know are mushrooms and olives), offer vary little in the way of distinct flavor. The same is true for breaded veal cutlets. Oh, sure, veal and chicken breast scallopini or cutlets or Milanese will provide some teeeeny bit of flavor to a dish. Don't write to tell me that I'm wrong because you can taste the chicken even if my allergy-addled taste buds no longer can. I can taste it, too. Likewise, probably, the veal. But let's be honest: it's not a principal component in the flavor.

So, piccata is really not an ideal treatment for an Iron Chef-style enhancement of veal or chicken. If you want to enhance the chicken or veal flavor, make something else. That said, I like piccata. If the chicken provides nothing more than a base upon which to enjoy the other ingredients, I can accept that. I like the other ingredients.

Still, I began to wonder, could anything else work as a base in which the piccata treatment would actually enhance the base ingredient? Lemon, capers, butter, and artichokes.

Well, duh. Shrimp.

I thought about fish, but most fish would be overwhelmed by the capers. I might consider a really strong fishy fish like mackerel or bonito, but I wanted to give the treatment a bit more thought. I'd probably have to grill to subdue the fishiness, and I'd rather keep my piccata in the sauté pan, if possible.

I tried the shrimp piccata dish with two different homemade pastas: once with Italian parsley spaghetti, once with tarragon spaghetti. I expected the parsley to be the better of the two (I was concerned that the tarragon would be just one flavor element too many). I was wrong. Both were good, but the tarragon was better.

Initially, I tried this shrimp dish with my chicken piccata recipe, substituting only shrimp for chicken. After making this once, I realized that the mushrooms (which I initially began using to enhance the chicken) were an unnecessary complication, and I eliminated them.

Shrimp Piccata

dramatis personae

1 package frozen artichoke hearts
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound enormous shrimp tails
1 cup white wine
1 half cup chicken stock
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 quarter teaspoon lemon oil or the zest of one medium lemon
2 tablespoons capers, non-pareils

preparation notes

Yes, I said frozen. Feel free to use fresh artichoke hearts, if you like, but that will add a good forty minutes to your prep. I start with Bird's Eye brand artichoke hearts: thaw them in warm water, drain them in a colander, slice each artichoke half into fourths, discarding any tough leaves. Heat the olive oil over a medium flame, and sauté the hearts until they're just beginning to brown. Remove the hearts from the pan, but leave the oil and fond behind--chopsticks work well for this task.

Get the biggest shrimp you can find. The ones I used were six tails to a pound. Shell, devein, and halve the shrimp longitudinally. To get a more cutlet-like effect, I ran a bamboo skewer down the length of each tail half to keep it from curling during sautéing. You can forego this step if you don't want the shrimp tails flat.

In the oil and fond from the artichokes, cook the shrimp tails until all the translucent bits are opaque (a couple three minutes--who times this stuff?). If you do this, you'll want to remove the skewers immediately upon removing the tails from the pan to keep the skewers from becoming an integral component of the shrimp. The best technique I've found is to hold each tail firmly with a paper towel, and twist the skewer while pulling it out.

Turn up the flame a bit and deglaze the white wine. When the majority of the liquid is gone, add the stock and the lemon oil or zest (both work about equally well, but some folks don't like the grainy texture of lemon zest in their sauces). Simmer until the majority of the liquid is gone. Toss in the artichoke hearts and immediately mount the sauce with the butter. Toss in the capers and remove the piccata sauce from the flame.

For each serving, arrange two or three shrimp tail halves on or aside a cup of cooked spaghetti (see below) and pour on a portion of the piccata sauce.

Chicken Picatta

dramatis personae

Same as the shrimp, but substitute four boneless chicken breast halves for the shrimp

You'll also need

- four cremini mushrooms (roughly golfball size)
- two tablespoons all-purpose flour

preparation notes

I prefer to remove all the fat and and the ropy wing muscle from the breasts and then pound them flat--roughly 3/8 inch thick cutlets. Pat the flattened cutlets dry; slice them in half or thirds, whatever size you prefer (it's mostly a matter of aesthetics); and dredge them in the flour. Shake off the excess.

Slice the mushrooms about 1/8th inch thick and, before cooking anything else, sauté them in a non-stick pan without oil until they are beginning to turn golden brown on the edges. Remove the mushrooms (don't clean or wipe the pan, though), and pour in the oil. Prepare the artichokes as for shrimp piccata.

Once you've removed the artichokes, sauté the chicken breasts in the fond and oil from the veggies. How long? I don't know. They should be golden brown and done through. Remove the breasts from the pan.

Turn up the flame a bit and deglaze the pan with white wine. When the majority of the liquid is gone, add the stock and the lemon oil or zest (both work about equally well, but some folks don't like the grainy texture of lemon zest in their sauces). Simmer until the majority of the liquid is gone. Toss in the artichoke hearts and immediately mount the sauce with the butter. Toss in the capers and remove the piccata sauce from the flame. For each serving, arrange two or three shrimp tail halves on or aside a cup of cooked spaghetti and pour on a portion of the piccata sauce.

Tarragon pasta

dramatis personnae

a dozen spinach leaves
2 tablespoons water
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup semolina flour
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
2 extra large eggs
1/4 cup tarragon leaves (chiffonade)

preparation notes

You do not have to use a fancy mixer to mix and knead the dough. It is my considered opinion, however, that you do need a pasta roller. I have attempted hand rolling pasta, and it hurts like hell. If you hand roll pasta, you actually like hand rolling pasta, you think the sun rises and sets on hand rolled pasta, you think those of us who rely on pasta machines are wimps--hey, knock yourself out. Personally, I make the dough, turn it over to my wife, and she rolls out fresh spaghetti on the Atlas (this one: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B0000CFNCP/qid=1098303893/sr=8-9/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i9_xgl79/002-3201007-8799252?v=glance&s=kitchen&n=507846 ) while I'm preparing dinner. She usually has the pasta drying on the rack well before the water boils.

Note: make the dough at least a half hour before you plan to begin rolling the pasta. The dough has to rest to relax a bit. Otherwise, it will be like trying to roll tire rubber.

Puree the spinach leaves in a food processor in the two tablespoons of water. Strain out all the solid bits in a mesh strainer. All you want is the green liquid.

Before you begin mixing everything, set aside the eggs to warm to room temperature. If you don't want to wait, run hot tap water over them for a few minutes to take off the refrigerator chill.

Oh, and about that chiffonade: these herbs are going into a pasta dough. That means they have to be minced into excruciatingly tiny bits. If the bits are too big, they won't stay in the dough.

If you're not using a mixer, wash and dry your hands, and remove any rings, watches, and bracelets. Clear some counter space and dust it with flour.

Mix the flours in a large bowl. Make a crater in the center and pour all the other ingredients in there. If you are not using a mixer, blend everything from the inside out with a fork. Once the dough becomes too thick to mix with the fork, use your hand. When the whole mass becomes one bolus of green dough, transfer it to the floured counter top to knead. Knead until the dough is uniform, pliable, moist, but not sticky--about five minutes of steady kneading should suffice.

Flour a small plate. Plop the dough ball in the middle of the plate. Wet one hand and wipe the wet hand over the surface of the dough. Cover this with a piece of plastic wrap and let it set for a half hour. If you have made the dough more than a half-hour in advance, put it in the refrigerator, but take it out and let it warm up a half-hour before rolling the pasta.

Professional (ish) Dessert Construction

Birth of the Topple

The key word here is construction. You can build some pretty impressive desserts from simple materials. No, I don't mean you should make your desserts from baling wire and toothpicks, but the ingredients don't have to be outlandish or even take much work. I'm not sure when I hit upon the realization, but I know it was during a Texas summer. Normally, I tend to think of desserts as something having a baked or poached-fruit component, but 100-degree days put the kibosh on that sort of preparation. I know, in moments of utmost laziness, you can always opt for store cookies (I prefer Pepperidge Farms Milanos or Brussels) and sorbet, but where's the fun in that? I want to put stuff together and have my family ooh and ah before falling on their dessert like ravenous hyenas (having learned quickly what gets repeat performances from the kitchen, my wife and kids are great oohers and ahers, by the way).

Generally, for constructed desserts, I find that the key elements are pretty much the same as the keys to any successful meal: balance and sensory appeal. Desserts are most pleasing when they are sweet but not too sweet, colorful but not gaudy. Tart flavors should balance against buttery and creamy flavors. Smooth textures should be highlighted with crisp fruit or a crunchy component. Vanilla, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, herbs, and citrus can add aroma as well as texture, but too much of a good thing is just bad.

Inspiration counts for a lot, too, and the calendar always plays a role in inspiration. If a fruit catches your eye in the grocery store--something looks particularly fresh, sweet, ripe, juicy, colorful--well, that just might be nature's way of telling you to start planning tonight's dessert. This was my experience early this summer with Texas blueberries. The local markets were packed with fresh bulging blueberries. I bout a pint and immediately began scouring my taste memory for things that would go well with blueberries.

Balance is also important in the workload. I think every cook agonizes over the question of what to buy ready-made and what to make from scratch. I don't want to oversimplify the answer to this question, but sometimes it's just a matter of advantages. Will I gain anything by making my own Caesar dressing over buying Cardini's? Well, that depends what else I'm serving. If the Caesar salad is the principal player in a meal, I might want to make my own with whole anchovy strips and shaved Parmesan and fresh lemon juice. If the salad is just a minor player, I'll opt for the bottled stuff. Other considerations include

1. Can I make something markedly better than the store-bought stuff?
2. Do I have time to make whatever it is from scratch?
3. Does this effort require tools that I do not possess?
4. If the effort is expensive in either funds or time, will it make much difference?

For instance, no matter the situation I'd sooner brush my teeth with a nail file than use store-bought Hollandaise or Bearnaise sauces. On the other hand, I'd never think of making my own hoisin sauce or Dijon mustard.

But we were talking about desserts. What all this listing and justification and juggling of nuances is leading up to is my excuse for buying a cake. The nearly-100-degree weather convinced me that I should buy an angel food cake to use as the base for my dessert. I was not baking a cake that night. Besides, frankly, I've never cared much for baking cakes, I don't have a bundt pan, the cake was destined for a supporting role, it was hot, and it was a Thursday night (I never can seem to get my shit together on Thursday nights). Anyway, I call this dessert a topple, because

--uh--

because it looks like one.

dramatis personae

• one angelfood cake (well, probably not a whole cake)
• zest of one small orange (or tangerine or Meyer's lemon)
• one cup heavy whipping cream
• two tablespoons confectioner's sugar
• one quarter teaspoon cream of tartar
• a dash of cardamom powder
• one quarter cup marscapone cheese
• one quarter cup pear butter
• one half pint of berries (blue, black, rasp)
• two tablespoons hulled pistachios

quality of ingredients

The cake should be uniform in shape and texture, moist but not sticky, sweet but not too sweet. I realize it's difficult to determine all of this if you've never tasted this particular bakery's cake, but you won't need the entire cake, so taste a bit. If the cake is too sweet, halve or forego the sugar in the whipped cream.

The berries have to be fresh and should not be mushy. Freshness can be tricky with some berries. Blueberries can be especially tricky; I think green blueberries deliberately masquerade as fresh berries to confound me. As with the cake, you'll need to taste the berries before you use them. If they're a bit on the tart side, cut each berry in half and use half as many on each topple.

When selecting the orange remember that you are going to use only the zest. Well, okay, you can use the rest of the orange in something else or eat the damned thing while you're whipping the cream, for all I care. But the zest is where your attention should be when you purchase the orange because that's the part you're using in this dessert. For this application, the color of the zest is unimportant. The aroma and overall health of the zest are the only important aspects. You want an orange (or tangerine) with no blemishes in the zest. Test the aroma by nicking it with a fingernail. It should have a strong, sweet, pleasant citrus aroma. If it smells too acrid or if it has little aroma, pick a different variety. If you can't find a decent orange or tangerine, a lemon (preferably a Meyer's lemon) will work.

preparation

Remember I said this is a construction. Since you've purchased the only cooked components of this dessert (the cake and the pear butter). Begin by preparing the filling and the whipped cream.

The filling's pretty quick. Combine the pear butter with the marscapone in a small bowl and whip them together with a fork. I like a uniform consistency, but you might prefer the filling to have a slightly striated appearance. Either way works. You might also be wondering, why the hell is he using pear butter? Apple butter is far easier to find, and it tastes good with berries, too. I suppose you could substitute apple butter for pear, but apple butter has a more assertive flavor than pear, so you'll probably want to use less.

I've never understood why anyone would use ready-made whipped cream. It's simple to make, takes less than 10 minutes, keeps for a couple of days, and tastes many times better than the ready-made. The topple uses orange-cardamom whipped cream, which sounds fancy but is damned simple. Combine the zest (if you don't own a microplane zester, get one) sugar, cream of tartar, cardamom, and cream in a large mixing bowl and whip it good. This is not rocket science. Whip it until it peaks. Use a silicon spatula to scrape the sides every minutes or so to ensure even distribution of the ingredients.

Break up the pistachios a bit. They needn't be chopped or ground. You want pieces that are in the neighborhood of a third pistachio size.

Slice the cake radially, like you slice a pie. You need two half-inch thick slices per serving. Use a large, extremely sharp knife and slice down slowly to avoid crushing the cake. On each plate, place one slice of angelfood cake, spread on a tablespoon of filling, place a second slice atop the filling offset slightly, so that it looks like it's sliding off the first. Top this with a large spoonful (a quarter cup? hell, I never measured) of orange-cardamom whipped cream. Sprinkle eight or ten berries and a teaspoon of pistachio chunks on each topple.

What Italians Really Want

I want to talk a little about the virtues of marscapone. Naturally, this relates to sex. Everything relates to sex.

There is an old (old as in, having Medieval origins--even Chaucer takes a stab at a variation on this via the Wife of Bath) sexist joke that goes something like this:

A young knight rapes a beautiful young lady. The king, for the reason du jour (low ratings with the female population--big-hearted sense of justice--desire to see the matter swept under the rug without any authentic adjudication--brain tumor), decides to let the queen and her ladies try this matter in the Court of Love. The ladies, using some arcane or arbitrary system of judgement decide that, rather doing anything so rational as tying this Y-chromosomatic over-achiever to the nearest pole and allowing a rabid polecat to search in his codpiece for mice, send him on an educational quest. If he can return with the correct answer to the council's Question in a year-and-a-day, they'll set him free. If not, it's the pole and ferret treatment for Our Hero. From this point onward, the young man's life (or at least that of his genitals) hinges on his discovering the answer to a fairly straightforward-sounding Question: "What does every woman really want?"

So, our Medieval Mike Tyson goes a-questing. Wherever he wends, he requests an interview with whatever woman the locals have deemed the wisest in the area. Because each maternal sage gives him an answer decidedly different from the previous answers, it quickly begins to look like this scumbag will get his just desserts. By various sources, he is told that all women really want:

1. Financial security


2. Frequent rogerings by accomplished young studs


3. To be young and pretty


4. Jewelry


5. To be told that they are young and pretty


6. A nice house


7. True love


8. A room of her own


9. Exquisite desserts


10. To be left alone

The requisite year-and-a-day passes, and Our Hero finds himself once more before the council of ladies. They put the Question to him and, having heard the same contradictory evidence as he, we are fairly certain this young fellow will soon be singing soprano.

"What every woman really wants," he says, "is"--

pause for dramatic effect--

"her way."

And they set the slimy bastard free.

I'd like to use this old joke to make two points. First, before you start getting steeped in the irony of progressive elitism, remember: the Clarence Thomas hearings weren't that long ago. Yeah, I know, that was a non-sequitur.

Second, that old sexist joke really demonstrates the dual nature of stereotypes. We tend to believe them even as we deny them. The stereotype of women from the men's perspective is that we never truly know what women want. The subtext of the joke, however, is that men actually know exactly what women want, but we also consider it an unreasonable desire.

In light of that stereotype, I'm sure you can see that we shouldn't be too quick to assume we know exactly what someone wants based on stereotypes. My wife, for example, is half-Italian. It's amazing how many people in this country think they know exactly what an Italian wants to eat based on nothing more substantial than a vague sense of ethnic origin. Italians are all supposed to love pasta, garlic, tomato sauce, Italian sausage, roasted peppers, langostino, and white truffles. Bollocks. Princess Valiant doesn't care, for example, for Parmesan cheese (she's also none too fond of roasted peppers or sausage of any description, but I'll address those matters another time). She's none too keen on Romano or any other stinky cheese, for that matter. Peccorino, Reggiano, Asiago, it makes no difference. She just doesn't like it. Her multa italiana Aunt Mary shares this sentiment; she says parmesan smells like a sweaty sock and won't allow it in her kitchen, much less near her pasta.

This puts me in a rather delicate position when I attempt to make risotto for the family. Authentic risotto is made with arborio rice, stock, white wine, cream, and parmeggiano, and I adore a good traditional risotto. Oh, I admit, I skimp on the parmesan for seafood risottos: shrimp, squid, lobster, and scallops just don't need the competition. Note I said "skimp." Seafood-based risotto still needs a little cheese for body. For most risottos, though, without sufficient parmesan, the results are rather bodiless and bland.

In most American households, this doesn't seem to be a problem. These days, folks in the US seem to be sold on the value of Reggiano Parmigiano as a flavoring agent. The Food Network and the boys at Queer Eye praise it to the heavens. Italian restaurants dole the stuff out like most places pass out cracked black pepper. This is unfortunate. It's rather like bathing your sushi in wasabi and soy sauce. Sure, it tastes good that way, but all you're going to taste is wasabi and soy sauce. At sushi prices, that's a waste of money. Likewise, if all you want is the taste of garlic and parmesan cheese, sprinkle 'em on a burger. What's the point of spending good money on a lasagna, risotto, or manicotti if all you're going to taste are the parmesan and garlic?

Recently, I discovered the answer to both of my risotto needs. First, I needed a the body of cheese for the seafood risottos, but I needed to eliminate the aged-cheese-stench. Second, for other risottos, I needed both the body and a certain extra flavor agent that would not provide too much grease (tried butter, threw away the results) nor too strongly cheesy. The answer I happened upon is marscapone.

Most folks are familiar with marscapone from a rather different source: marscapone provides the body and a degree of piquancy to tiramisu and cannolis (if you are not Italian and weren't an adult in the 1980s, you may have to look up this term--trust me, it's a dessert). Marcaspone is young mozarella. It has nearly the consistency of whipped cream cheese but with a slightly tarter flavor. What I found truly amazing is that marscapone not only makes an outstanding substitute for parmesan in risotto, not only works with (vice against) the flavor of seafood, but also makes the cream superfluous and allows the risotto to mount much faster than with cream. It's so easy to use, it almost feels like cheating.