Tag: gelatin

Categories
Basics The Book

161. Beef Stock p.928


The recipe

I can’t escape the conclusion that I’m a food snob. I take satisfaction in looking down on packaged and processed foods, and I give people points for making meals from scratch, double points if the ingredients come from an ethically superior source, and triple points if they grew the food themselves. The ultimate ridiculousness of snobbishness is that no one can live up to the standards they judge others by. I enjoy pickling my insides with Doritos, I pay outrageous prices for a tiny package of hummus that I could make at home for twelve cents, and I don’t find that organic vegetables taste better than their fertilizer drenched cousins. My ultimate sin though, is that I don’t make my own stock.

Stock making and apartment living aren’t an obvious combination. Making stock takes most of a day, so you’ll want to make up a big batch. That’s well and good if you’ve got a spare freezer in the basement, but our tiny freezer is spilling over with leftover ravioli, pesto ice cubes, and pork tenderloin that went on a crazy sale. There’s just no room for three liters of stock. The food network has filled hundreds of hours by having famous chefs repeat the refrain that the biggest reason the professionals’ food tastes better than home cooks’ is that they make their own stock (and use unconscionable amounts of butter). The sin that will get me kicked out of the food snobs annual picnic is that I don’t think that store bought broth is all that bad, in fact I like it. It’s convenient, perfectly servicable, and unless you’re using it as a gigantic component of your dish no one is going to be able to tell the difference. You usually have to reduce the salt in the rest of the recipe, because even “low sodium” broth isn’t all that low in sodium, other than that store bought broth is perfectly fine, and not at all a pain in the ass.

Making this stock was a pain in the ass. It’s not actually difficult, but it’s messy and takes six and a half hours. Your day starts with a trip to the butcher, who is happy to provide meaty beef and veal shanks, but thinks you’re an idiot when you ask him to saw them into one inch slices. He’s been making stock his whole life, and doesn’t think this step is necessary. He’s old and Italian, so he’s probably right. You then bike home with a plastic bag full of chopped up bones hanging from your handlebar, and dump them into a roasting pan along with some carrots and onions. Roast this mess, stirring occasionally for an hour at 450. Stop cursing Ruth Reichls name, because the house is starting to smell pretty good. Make a bouquet garni by tying parsley, thyme, and a bay leaf in cheesecloth. Start cursing Ruth again, because you’re going to be running the stock through a fine mesh sieve later on, and a bouquet garni is totally unnecessary. Transfer the roasted bones to a stockpot. In transferring them drop several meaty bones on the floor, this is interesting for the cat, but annoying for you. Deglaze the roasting pan, and transfer the scraped up brown bits to the stockpot along with celery, the bouquet garni, and water. Bring it to a boil, and spend half an hour skimming the nasty meat froth that rises to the surface. Disgust your girlfriend by sneaking up on her with the meat foam while she tries to read the paper. Let the stock reduce for 3 to 5 hours. Don’t leave the house, because that’s a fire hazard. Break up the monotony by skimming more foam every once in a while. Once you’ve got 8 cups of liquid left, fish out all the bits of bone and mushy vegetables, and get rid of them. Then try to set up a sieve over another big pot, and pour the stock through the sieve. Mess this up, and have the sieve fall into the filtered stock. Do it all again. Touch the hot stockpot and burn yourself. Swear for a while. Do a side to side comparison of your stock to Campbell’s low sodium beef broth, and realize that they’re really not that different. Swear some more.

This tastes like tetra-packed beef broth from the store, only it takes a long time. Homemade does have more gelatin in it, so it has a richer mouth feel, but I’m sure blooming an eighth of a teaspoon of gelatin in store bough broth would nullify this difference. Final verdict, totally not worth it. I used it as the basis for French Onion Soup, which specifically calls for making this stock, and suggests that it won’t be nearly the same with store bought, but frankly the stock wasn’t amazing in the soup. Maybe there are beef stock recipes out there that will blow the cheap, readily available, and very convenient competition away, but this is not one of them.

Categories
Pies, Tarts, and Pastries The Book

148. Grasshopper Pie p.772


The recipe

Grasshopper pie was one of the great frustrations of my childhood. It’s a hypnotically enticing green, it’s named after an insect, and it has cookie crumbs in the crust, this is obviously the perfect pie for an eight year old boy. Unfortunately it’s boozy enough to light with a match. My Papa had a fondness for it, and after dinner at big family gatherings my Nana would sometimes bring one out. The adults would sit around laughing, as my uncle would reverently bring a bite to his lips, close his eyes, and make exaggerated moans of pleasure while I looked jealously on. No, no, grasshopper pie isn’t for little boys, there are cookies for you in the kitchen. I could have screamed.

When I got a bit older, I was allowed to try a bite, and much to my dismay, it was foul. Sure it was minty sweet and creamy, but there was something medicinal and disgusting about it. Adults made no sense, alcohol categorically did not taste good, and ruined everything it touched. It was only after a few early experiments with drinking had rewired my brain and set up a pleasant conditioned taste association, that I came around on grasshopper pie. Now, I’m the one faking rapture to make my little cousins jealous.

The pie is easy to make. You start by smashing chocolate wafers into crumbs (get the kids who won’t be eating this pie to help), mix with melted butter, press into a pie pan, and bake. Meanwhile bloom gelatin in cream, add sugar, crème de menthe (green), crème de cacao (clear), and egg yolks. You then whisk this mixture in a double boiler ’till it comes up to 160F, and cool the bowl in an ice bath. Once it’s thickened, fold in whipped cream, and pour the filling into the crust. It then goes into the refrigerator for a few hours, and gets a sprinkling of chocolate just before serving.

My pie was going very well until I got to the cooling the gelatin mixture in a bowl of ice water step. I decided to save time by multitasking and getting the cream whipping in the stand mixer while I stirred the gelatin mixture in the ice bath. Everything was going fine ’till I stopped stirring to see if the cream had reached stiff peaks. By the time I got back to my gelatin it had set. I should have thrown it back on the still hot double boiler, melted it, and then chilled it more carefully, but I didn’t. I figured enough stirring and vigorous folding of whipped cream would do the trick. This was a bad plan. The gelatin mixture stayed in little boozy Jello clumps, and my whipped cream deflated. Because all the colour was in the Jello clumps the pie wasn’t looking very grasshoppery. I resorted to stirring in a few drops of food colouring, which solved things neatly.

I don’t think I could pick a favourite grasshopper pie of my life. There’s not much variation in the technique or the finished product. They almost inevitably taste great. Rich and creamy, with a boozy kick, and brisk hit of mint. The crème de cacao is there in the background, providing that hint of chocolate which works so well with mint.
Next time I’ll remember that gelatin is happy to set for a second time. However, despite my flub-ups, I was quite pleased with this pie. I had to want grasshopper pie for many years before I could try it, and then want to like it for a few more years, now I can say that it was worth the wait.

***ADDENDUM***

At my dining companion’s request, I made this pie again last night. I was very careful not to cool the gelatin mixture too much, and I took it out of the ice cube bath as soon as it began to thicken a little bit. When I mixed in the cream I had exactly the same issue as the first time, chunks of green gelatin in white cream. I solved the problem by putting the whole mess back in the mixer bowl and beating it on high for a minute. Grasshopper pie continues to be delicious, but I’m convinced that the recipe is flawed. I don’t want to start retroactively modifying my ratings, but I think we’re still within the 5 second rule for this post, so I’m downgrading this recipe from 4 to 3 mushrooms.

Categories
Fish and Shellfish The Book

133. Poached Salmon in Aspic p.318


The recipe

I had so much fun making and presenting this, that even if it been inedible, it would have been worth it. Luckily, it tasted quite good. I absolutely knew that I needed an occasion to serve this dish. In honour of the aspic coated days of yore we organized a retro-potluck extravaganza. People brought cheese balls, bean casseroles, cocktail weenies, deviled eggs, mac and cheese, potato salad, and old fashioned cocktails. Then I brought out a cold fish covered in salmon flavoured Jello. Most people weren’t too sure what to make of it, but it certainly caused a stir.

For people who’ve been following along for a while now, it should be clear that I have an abiding affection for old-school, kind of nasty, but kind of great, dishes. For me this is the ne plus ultra of that style of cooking. It’s got the pressed linen and polished silver grandeur of days gone by, as well as a gross out, dare your friends to eat it, backwardness. I’ve been thinking about trying a salmon in aspic for a couple of years, but after an enlightening conversation with my dining companion’s mother, in which I accused her grandmother of having been a great aspicker, I was determined.

The recipe was quite involved, and time consuming. I started by poaching the salmon in water, with lemon, onion, carrot, celery, bay leaf, parsley stems, thyme, and peppercorns. Then whole poacher went into the fridge for 8 hours to let the flavours infuse. The recipe calls for a 24-inch fish poacher, which I don’t have. The biggest one I could borrow was 19 inches, so I used a smaller Atlantic salmon (4 lbs instead of 6).

Once the fish is chilled, it’s removed to a cookie sheet, and the broth is strained, fortified with white wine, Madeira, thyme, and salt, then reduced. Meanwhile the most painstaking part of recipe begins, the removing of the nasty bits of salmon. Beyond a little trimming of excess bones, and floppy fatty folds, it involves peeling all the skin and dark flesh off the fish. It’s an easy instruction to read, but a delicate and painstaking job.

Once the broth is reduced, it gets a further addition of leek, carrot, celery, egg whites, and crushed up egg shells, and gently simmered. You’re basically making a fish consommé in this step, using the egg whites and shells to trap little particles in the protein net they form, all the nastiness forms a raft at the top, and once you run the broth through a couple of layers of paper towel you end up with a crystal clear broth. This is one of those incredibly simple cooking techniques, that’s undeniably cool. People were going nuts about using gelatin filtration to make unusually flavored consommés a couple of months back, but making the original had its own charms.

The reduced and perfectly clear broth is then added to some bloomed gelatin, and allowed to simmer for a couple of minutes ’till everything is dissolved. The mixture is then chilled in a metal bowl, sitting in a water bath ’till the gelatin just begins to set. Then it’s time to work quickly and get the aspic over the fish. I’ve read more than a few aspic disaster stories, of the gelatin just sliding off its target, or clumping up unattractively. So I was a bit worried about this step, but it worked flawlessly. I spooned on a thin layer, chilled the fish for a while, then topped it with some blanched leeks, and applied another layer of gelatin. All of the remaining aspic went into a baking dish and was allowed to set. I then cut it up and surrounded the fish with little wiggly aspic cubes.

The whole point of covering a salmon in aspic is to keep it moist. Obviously the aspic adds flavour, and texture, but really it’s all about protecting the fish for a banquet presentation. I have to say it did a very good job on that front. The salmon was quite delicious, mild and delicate. For all the aromatics that went into this, nothing overwhelmed. It was more of a subtle background array of flavours. The aspic had a much more concentrated dose of flavour, and I was surprised to like it quite a bit. I wouldn’t sit down to a bowl of aspic, but it had a rich mouth-feel that complimented the salmon, and added little highlights of flavour

It was quite warm the night I served this dish, and we packed about 35 people into our apartment, so it got intolerably hot. Unfortunately the aspic didn’t hold up well under the heat, and mostly melted off my fish within about 15 minutes. Those who got an early serving tried it as it was meant to be, but latecomers only tried poached salmon in Jello soup. I suppose if you were doing this professionally you’d put your serving dish on a bed of crushed ice, but our ice supply was devoted to mixing old-fashioneds, martinis, and Singapore slings.

I was really happy with this dish, from a showmanship perspective this was absolutely worth it. The flavour was very nice, but it couldn’t live up to my expectations for such a dramatic looking dish. It was very mild, and pleasant, which for a crowd pleasing buffet is exactly what you’re looking for. I’m impressed that the recipe is as clearly written and step-by-step easy to follow as it is. I was very afraid going in that this would turn out to be a spectacular failure, but it couldn’t have gone more smoothly. If you’ve ever considered doing something like this, I’d definitely recommend going for it. It was an excellent experience, worthy of a five mushroom rating.

Categories
Hors D'Oeuvres & First Courses The Book

122. Smoked Salmon Mousse with Salmon Roe and Crudités p.19


The recipe

I was really looking forward to this recipe, but I didn’t expect to like it at all. I’ve never had a salmon mousse before, and it has a certain reputation. Pop culture uses it to indicate that a character is out of touch, horribly backwards, or disturbingly gross. I suspect many people can’t think of THE SALMON MOUSSE without imagining the grim reaper from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. It turns out that salmon mousse became popular enough to earn this iconic status because it’s delicious. Maybe its reputation got dragged down along with the casserole-generation’s jellied hot dog and marshmallow salads.

The mousse is made by folding whipped cream into a purée of smoked and canned salmon, sour cream, and tabasco, with scallions and bloomed gelatin stirred in. The mixture is poured into an oiled mold, whose bottom has been lined with cilantro leaves. The mousse is refrigerated, unmolded, and the base is surrounded with salmon roe.

I was surprised at how much I liked this spread over a cracker. The airy mousse had a great consistency. I was worried it would end up gummy and jellied, but the gelatin just barely set it, leaving it soft and smooth. The smoked salmon was the backbone of flavour in this dish, The canned salmon kind of disappeared. The salmons flavour was intense enough that it could stand being diluted in the whipped cream. In a happy accident I quadrupled the tabasco (1 tsp instead of 1/4 tsp), which added some needed punch, and helped to counter the richness. The cilantro leaves were pretty, but I didn’t really think they added anything. If you’re going to top the mousse with cilantro, then it should have some cilantro flavour. Next time I’d chop some up and stir it in. The salmon roe had mixed reactions from the crowd I served this to. It was incredibly intense, and added a burst of salmon essence to the mousse, but some people felt it was a bit much. I enjoyed the roe, and would use it again.

This kind of dish has been out of fashion for a long time, but it’s definitely ready for a comeback. The molecular gastronomy (or whatever you want to call it) set are making savoury gels of everything they can get their hands on, and the food fashion conscious are eating it up. Maybe you can reintroduce the salmon mousse by claiming that your salmon are organic, and telling people you set it with agar agar. Sure it’s whipped fish Jello, but it tastes great, and it’s weirdly elegant. I love that this dish could fit in at a regency banquet, at an “I Like Ike” booster, or as an experiment in geometry from the people behind Ideas in Food.

Categories
Beef, Veal, Pork, and Lamb The Book

34. Brisket a la Carbonnade p.423

the recipe

Sorry for the long interval between posts, I was out of town last week.

I’ve made this recipe twice, on the left is my first attempt, which was almost black, dry, and found me trying to deglaze the sides of my dutch oven to end up with a sauce. On the right is attempt number two (with carrots and parsnips thrown in a few minutes before the end), which fell apart at the touch of a fork, was loaded with flavour, and had more than enough gravy to go around. The difference? tinfoil, and a watchful eye.

This is a classic Belgian braised dish, a brisket, braised in beer, with onions. There are a lot of things to love about brisket. In this dish it capitalizes on the magical powers of braising, which can turn nearly inedible (and dirt cheap) cuts of meat into fillet mignon tender bites. It’s also more flavorful than the loin cuts, and has got a bunch more connective tissue. Connective tissue + long slow heat = gelatin = home made Jello time. Sounds kind of gross, but it makes sauces saucier and gives them a mouth feel you can’t get any other way. I believe unctuous is the word for this sensation, and I can’t think of a less appealing word for such a nice attribute.

This dish was as simple as you could wish for, I just browned the brisket, softened the onions, then added the brisket and the rest of the ingredients back into the pot. After bringing it to a boil I covered it and put it in the oven for the next three and half hours. No maintenance necessary, or so I thought. When I pulled attempt number one of this dish out almost all the liquid had evaporated, the onions were nearly black, and the brisket was starting to dry out. The next time around I paid a good deal more attention to it. I think the lid of my dutch oven doesn’t sit as tightly as I might wish, so I sealed it with tinfoil the second time. I also checked it once an hour, and added more beer as necessary. Attempt number two was superior in all ways but one. The first time around the onions had been cooking in so little liquid that they got really deeply caramelized, which added a great level of flavour which was missing in the second attempt.

I wouldn’t change a thing about this recipe. It takes four and a half hours, but you’re only working for twenty minutes. It uses a really affordable cut of meat, and packs huge flavour into every bite. It’s cooked in beer which gives you lots of room to experiment with different brews. And, it’s a great excuse to fondle your dutch oven.