Hors d’Oeuvres
Sauteed Squid w/ Chili Oil and Fried Garlic
So I discovered the world’s greatest condiment. It comes in a little jar and it’s called “chili oil with crunchy garlic”, which you have to admit sounds pretty awesome. Like many of the best condiments, this one is Asian (Japanese to be precise): I found it on a shelf at Pearl River. In a store otherwise full of schlock I plucked out the sole worthwhile item.
The label is entirely accurate, a virtue not to be taken lightly. Slipping in my spoon was like dipping a toe through a wave receding back into the ocean: halfway through the liquid, you’re met by a crunchy wall. My new little bottle was packed-packed!-half-full of, as advertised, crisp little bits of fried garlic. So I started doing something uncharacteristic: eating oil. On closer examination, the bits were a lovely mixture of fried garlic and a few other things equally delicious, the identity of which was frustratingly mysterious. I thought I sensed some dried fish in there, but the label said chilies and, oddly, almonds.
A proper condiment is like popcorn in a movie theater: without it, the main event is palatable but bland. For a condiment to attain pantheon status, its absence must render the central item irrelevant and pointless. A plate of fries with no ketchup, for instance. Munching fried garlic, chilies, and almonds; I couldn’t imagine a life without my new friend-in-a-little-bottle.
This stuff can be drizzled on noodles, meats, fish, chicken, added to stews, stir-fries, over toasted bread for a sandwich or a dipping sauce, etc. A bowl of noodles coated with the oil sounded particularly delicious, but too easy. I came up with squid, sliced thinly and tossed with the oil, scallions, black sesame seeds, and salt.
Ketchup is powerful; just ask the fry. But this stuff has a far wider range. In a forthcoming post I’ll attempt to recreate it in the kitchen, but for now I’m happy to enjoy my discovery and spread the word.
Oh yeah, it’s called Taberu Rayu.
(NOTE: Unless your squid/pan size ration is precise, you’ll probably end up with some excess squid liquid, in which case just drain it off in a colander. In general you shouldn’t crowd pans, but I don’t like a lot of extra dirty dishes. Also, to serve as an hors d’oeuvre we plated the squid in Chinese spoons. I’m not sure of any other practical way to do it. Maybe a little glass and a tiny fork or something. On a plate in lettuce cups would work. Finally, like steak tartare this is a season to taste kind of recipe. Just don’t add too much stuff; you’ll overwhelm the squid.)
Sauteed Squid in Chile Oil with Fried Garlic
Serves 2 as an appetizer, 4 as an hors d’oeuvre
2 tablespoons oil
1/2 pound squid sliced very thinly, including tentacles
¼ cup Taberu Rayu (chili oil w/ fried garlic)
2 tablespoons black sesame seeds or roasted sesame seeds
4 tablespoons thinly sliced scallions, whites only
salt
- Heat the oil to smoking over high heat in a large pan. Add the squid and sauté for 45 seconds. Remove to a colander (SEE NOTE) to drain excess liquid.
- Add squid to a bowl and toss with remaining ingredients. Season with the salt and serve either on separate plates as an appetizer or small spoons as an hors d’oeuvre. You could simply set the bowl in the middle of the table with chopsticks.
Lime and Vodka Granita w/ Oysters
SeaGrub: a celebration of seafood, and how to cook the stuff. Or in this case, eat it raw.
The two of us sat at the table in a medium-nice Chelsea restaurant, scribbling on a small notebook. The place (Shaffer City, since closed), had a massive collection of oysters, listed on a separate, paperback-sized special menu. The mission was to sift through these bivalves and form a list of favorites. After the second dozen or so, we put down our pens and simply enjoyed the experience: sending back piles of empty shells, squeezed lemon quarters, and bottles of cheap beer.
Some people love oysters; others hate them. This is for the former group; I don’t have the energy to analyze the incomprehensible. It must be a texture, rather than a taste thing, for it’s impossible to dislike an entire selection of oysters; they’re that discrete.
Oysters are as complex as Mormon genealogy. They may appear similar: about the same size, knobby and a struggle to snap open, but the flavor within can be extraordinarily different. Some are large, pillowy, mild bites; some are smaller and briny; others combine both characteristics with a twist.
To enjoy them you need a sample, and, since Shaffer has closed, occasionally we go to Aquagrill, with its equally vast selection. A sample from this Sunday:
Blue Point Oysters - Connecticut
Gold Creek Oysters - Washington
Piper’s Point Oysters - P.E.I.
Sisters Point Oysters – Washington
Chefs Creek Oysters - British Columbia
Chincoteague Oysters – Virginia
Canada Cup Oysters - P.E.I.
Indian Creek Oysters - P.E.I.
Pebble Beach Oysters - Washington
Willapa Bay Oysters - Washington
Beavertail Oysters - Rhode Island
Hog Neck Bay Oysters - New York
La St. Simon Oysters - New Brunswick
Little Creek Oysters - Washington
Ninigret Cup Oysters - Rhode Island
Potters Moon Oysters - Rhode Island
Royal Miyagi Oysters - British Columbia
Umami Oysters - Rhode Island
Wellfleet Oysters – Massachusetts
Beau Soleil Oysters - New Brunswick
First Light Oysters - Massachusetts
Montauk Pearl Oysters - New York
Cotuit Oysters - Massachusetts
Effingham Inlet Oysters - British Columbia
Komoguay Oysters - British Columbia
What seems an intimidating selection is simplified by a brainlessly basic option of accompaniments, i.e. a squeeze of lemon. Cocktail sauce, and peppery mignonette are also acceptable, the idea being sharp acid matches the cold, briny meat.
Which is why sometimes oysters are topped with a small scoop of granita, an icy, slushy concoction, in this case made with an tart juice such as grapefruit or lime. We made a batch of lime-vodka granita and popped it in a shot glass, with an excellent result. Vodka, of course, freezes less readily than water, requiring a bit of patience and a less than perfect granita, but a perfect little shot of limy booze.
Alcohol tends to provoke a more adventurous palate. A good reason to set a tray of oysters and vodka granita before your friendly oyster hater, and see what happens.
Oysters w/ Lime Granita Shots
Serves 2 (about to be drunk people)
½ cup lime juice
½ cup vodka
a dozen mixed oysters on ice
lime zest, grated
- Combine the lime juice and vodka in a shallow bowl and freeze for about a day. It should be slushy. Stir in a bit of zest
- Serve the granita in shot glasses along with the oysters over ice.
Peperoni Fritti (blistered peppers w/ sea salt)
Years ago, some economist developed a pretty cool theorem about our spending habits. I have no idea what it’s called or its exact proof, but the essence is that we’re less discriminating about the price of large ticket items than smaller ones. We’ll pop in and out of Best Buy, flat screen tv in hand, yet be offended by a pricey box of strawberries at the market.
Once again, I don’t recall said economist’s behavioral conclusions, but the thought process seems pretty clear. At the market, we’re close to our money; so close we actually touch the bills. And the cost is relatable in real terms as opposed to the distant figure attached to, say, a car. Casinos depend on this model. Their currency, chips, seems like play money, made for casual spending. Until you leave and find yourself sleeping at the bus station.
This stuff occurs to me often at relatively expensive restaurants, where I’m shocked at the price of a $5 bowl of soup only to order an $18 plate of pasta. Take Pulino’s which makes an unbelievably awesome pizza. A sausage pizza for one is $18. But this is no mere pie: the crust is crisp yet chewy i.e. not a cracker; more uncommon, the dough has a depth of bread flavor, rather than the standard over-smoky thin-crust pie. The minimal, yet distinctive and delicately placed toppings make for a wonderful package. It’s worth the price.
The “zuppa del giorno” (soup of the day), on the other hand, is $9. Odds are, the deft hand behind such a pizza would produce an equally tasty soup. I wouldn’t know: $9 for a bowl is, I’d say, excessive. And yet, the markup on the pie is probably equivalent. It’s the car/strawberry effect in action.
In college, we called sociology “the study of the obvious”. The above theorem seems to fit that bill, with one crucial piece missing: quality i.e. the human factor. Taste being highlysubjective, it defies typecasting and throws off scientific inquiry.
For instance, take Pulino’s “peperoni fritti” or blistered green peppers with sea salt. These mini peppers are hot, smoky, laced with crunchy salt and oil, unbelievably addictive and at $9, really expensive for a plate of peppers. Except that I always order these suckers because, well, they’re so good.
These would be replicated easily at home-seared in a scorching pan-but for the scarcity of the actual ingredient. The shishito peppers I don’t see often, and when I do, they’re very pricey.
I found some, but I’m pretty sure you could make a nearly delicious version with some chopped bell peppers. Fire up those peppers and toss with chili flakes or even some sliced pepperoncini. Delicious, reasonably priced, but not the real thing, which is worth the cost.
Peperoni Fritti (blistered peppers w/ sea salt)
Serves 2 as an appetizer
1/2 pound shishito peppers
½ cup olive oil
kosher or sea salt
1. Heat the oil in a large sauté pan over high heat. When nearly smoking, toss in the peppers. Let them blister for 30 seconds then toss rapidly for a minute or two until softened and blistered but not burned. Pour into a bowl or plate, season with salt and serve.
Salmon w/ Juniper and Polenta
As we speak I’m on a train in Switzerland from Lucerne to Lugano. Aside from seeing another part of the world, there’s been an additional benefit to this journey; I now know a little German. I’m pretty sure I can say “did he like his ice cream?” and “next stop Lugano”, two highly useful phrases if you ever find yourself around here.
But back to the point. I don’t have my head around the Lucerne culinary culture. Having eaten the following: some tasty slices of boiled brisket, a plate of bad Greek food; good gelato; decent Thai; a weird salad; and nouveau Chinese, I don’t have a clue about the Lucerne culinary style. They seem to be either comfortable with their food or striving for an identity. Which got me thinking of our house plants back home.
On our windowsill overlooking downtown Broadway, sit two clay pots, one planted with Thai Basil seeds, the other with Thai chili seeds. From the moment I got off the phone with the seed man, I envisioned two giant, lush plants from which I can snip fresh pods and leaves as desired and drop them in a pot of curry. Unfortunately, things haven’t worked out as planned. They’re both sprouting the same thing: inch-high weeds. Like the culinary scene of Lucerne, they’re unable or unwilling to bloom into something definably unique and of itself.
Juniper, too, is a fussy, under confident little bugger, halfway between a spice and an old raisin lost in the couch. As the necessary flavoring in gin, it’s an important spice, but it’s less comfortable in the kitchen. Most often chefs use juniper to flavor game: a few of the whole berries tossed into a marinade with a bottle of red wine and a leg of lamb.
But anything that’s primarily used for a cocktail is, as you might expect, usually too strong to cook with, and I find it undetectable and superfluous in said marinade. But as long as you’re careful, one can use juniper to an interesting effect. First, in order to taste it, you must grind the whole berries. From there you can season your meat with a very tiny pinch.
The main ingredient must be powerfully flavored in order to stand up to the spice. Game, lamb, and such, are perfect. From the fish family, salmon-fatty and sturdy-works nicely. Especially on a bed of mascarpone enriched polenta and garnished with vinegar-marinated rock shrimp. Juniper deserves to feel comfortable in its own skin. Next stop, Lucerne and my struggling little plants.
(NOTE: these little shrimp work very well on their own as a tapas with country bread, tossed with lentils and tomatoes, in a salad, etc. Don’t marinate them too long; the acids will transform them into tiny bullets.)
Salmon w/ Juniper and Polenta
Serves 4
1 cup instant polenta
3 cups water
large spoonful mascarpone
4 salmon fillets, skin off, about 6 oz each
¼ cup olive oil
¼ teaspoon ground juniper
Marinated Rock Shrimp (see Note)
kosher salt and pepper
- Add water to a medium pot and bring to a boil over medium high heat. Add the polenta in a thin stream, stirring or whisking constantly to make smooth. Reduce heat and simmer gently, stirring frequently until thickened but still pourable, Add water if necessary.
- Preheat oven to 400.
- Season the fish with juniper and salt.
- Heat the oil in a large pan over high heat. When nearly smoking, add the fish and cook without moving until browned, about 2 minutes. Flip, cook one minute and add to oven for about 3 or 4 minutes. Remove.
5. To serve, add the mascarpone to the polenta and stir until incorporated. Season with salt and pepper. Divide among 4 plates, top with salmon.
Marinated Rock Shrimp
½ cup olive oil
½ pound rock shrimp
5 or 6 thinly sliced small chilies
2 teaspoons chopped thyme
1 clove thinly sliced garlic
1 cup cider vinegar
salt and pepper
- Heat half the oil in a large pan over high heat. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper and throw into the pan. Cook, tossing, until done but not too brown, 3 or 4 minutes. Remove to a bowl.
- Add the chilies, thyme, and garlic. Saute briefly until fragrant then add to the shrimp. Pour in the vinegar, reduce by half and pour over shrimp. Top with remaining ¼ cup oil and let cool to room temperature. Season to taste. Serve immediately or marinate for up to an hour.
Vietnamese Peanut Sauce
Fish sauce is one of my great culinary discoveries. Not cooking with it, mind you, but the only way truly to appreciate fish sauce: spilled on the floor. You see, don’t cry over spilt milk is nice and all, but you probably should cry over spilt fish sauce.
I was in cooking school and a tray containing several half-closed bottles tipped out of its slot in the cart and crashed to the ground, splattering the stuff all over the white tiled floor. It was like when the chem. teacher magically altered the color of flame: an instant reek arose from that shiny floor like a fishy nuclear cloud.
In fact, fish sauce, like wine, is chemistry in a bottle: a product of fermentation, in this case fish rather than grapes. But the idea is the same: take a natural product and let it rot until it’s really tasty. Of course, spoiled grape juice sounds better than spoiled fish, but without fish sauce there’d be no Vietnamese food, and I’d rather live in a world without wine than a world without Vietnamese fare.
Yet fish sauce, by itself in, say, a cup, is pretty gross. You need to mix it with other stuff, which is how we come to the other wonder of this cuisine: the marriage of these seemingly yucky products. It can act like salt, seasoning rice and other items, but it’s magical when whisked with lime juice, a little sugar, shallots, and herbs; squirted in to finish a curry; or sizzled at the end of a simple stir fry.
In this dish, it’s stir fried with ground pork and two other items which aren’t great on their own: tamarind water and fermented soy bean paste. Add a little water and you have a slightly chunky sauce to be used as a dip for vegetables, noodles, salads, etc. On paper it reads like the recipe for a nasty fraternity drink: scoop a bunch of stuff into a cup and drink. But this funky marriage works beautifully. Just don’t spill it on the floor.
(NOTE: tamarind water is essentially the strained liquid from tamarind pulp mixed with water. For the offbeat ingredients, go online. Our Thai market is Bangkok Center Grocery-they have a website. The sauce goes well served as a dipping sauce for vegetables. You can pour it hot over a salad of cilantro, scallions, and lettuce with or without beef or chicken.)
Vietnamese Peanut Sauce (from Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet)
¼ cup roasted peanuts
2 teaspoons peanut oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 tablespoons ground pork
3 tablespoons fermented soybean paste (dao jiao in Thai) (NOTE)
2 tablespoons tamarind water (see NOTE)
1 cup water
1 ½ teaspoons sugar
1 or two bird chiles, minced
squeeze lime juice
- Grind peanuts to a coarse powder and reserve.
- Heat a wok or skillet with the oil over high heat. Add garlic, cook 15 seconds till lightly colored then add pork. Break it up, and when changed color, add tamarind water and soybean paste, stir.
- Add ½ cup water, most of the peanuts, sugar and chilies, and stir. Add up to ½ cup or more of the water. It shouldn’t be a thick liquid, not watery.
- Use as a dipping sauce for vegetables, to pour over salads or stir fries.
Fried Calamari w/ Fish Sauce and Mint
I’ve always thought fried calamari is kind of dull. It’s a wonderful thing turned into junk food. Go to a decent Vietnamese place and order any simple stir-fried squid and you’ll regret those years of eating the stuff fried.
We frequent Lucky Strike primarily because it’s close. The food occupies that land between mediocre and not so great, but the place has a nice vibe and they’re good to kids. The fries are addictive, the burgers suck, and somehow they manage to make a grilled salmon greasier than those great fries. The fried calamari is particularly lousy. I’m not sure which is worse: the wimpy, paper-thin coating or the chewy, intensely frozen-tasting squid.
If you’re going to eat fried calamari, you need two things: good squid and a good fry. You can simply dust the stuff lightly in flour and it’ll fry up well. We decided to give it the full junk food treatment: flour, egg, flour dredge and a dunk in hot oil.
And of course we couldn’t resist the Vietnamese twist, serving it with rice, mint, and fish sauce. You could roll these up in a lettuce leaf or rice paper also. Either way, they’re a delicious improvement on your standard fried calamari.
(Note: We used sushi rice, which is awesome, but feel free to go with Jasmine or any long grain.)
Fried Calamari w/ Fish Sauce and Mint
Serves 4 as an appetizer
1 cup sushi rice
3 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
½ pound squid
1 cup flour divided among two bowls.
1 egg, beaten
fish sauce
mint leaves, coarsely chopped
oil for frying
salt
- Rinse the rice well three times, refreshing the water each time then let soak for an hour in clean water. Drain and add to a small pot with 2 cups water. Set over medium heat until simmering and reduce the liquid to the level of the rice then cover, lower heat and cook until done.
- Meanwhile, make the dressing. In a small bowl, whisk the vinegar with the sugar and salt until the sugar is dissolved.
- When the rice is done, let sit for five minutes then turn out into a bowl, preferably wooden. Using a wooden spoon, cut gently through the rice to break it up, and pour in the dressing. When it is incorporated, let it cool. Use immediately or gather in a mound in the bowl, cover with a moist towel. To use up to 12 hours in advance, store at room temperature in a tight-fitting container.
- To make the squid: Line a tray with paper towels. Heat a few inches of oil in a small pot. In batches, dredge lightly in flour, then egg, then the second bowl of flour. Tap off excess and add to the oil. Fry until crisp and lightly browned, about 2-3 minutes. Remove to prepared tray and fry the remaining squid. Season with salt
- Serve in bowls with rice and plenty of fish sauce. Shower with mint.
Broiled Sardines w/ Dill and Blood Orange
Some foods are better in theory than on the plate. Homemade tongue, for instance. I like a good tongue sandwich once in a while, but I’ve made it at home, and each time, as if struck by amnesia, I forget my previous efforts and the accompanying mild revulsion. It’s one thing to sit at Barney Greengrass making your way through excessive pickle piles, and be handed a delicious tongue sandwich with mustard on rye. It’s quite another to simmer the thing at home, chill it, and stare at it in the fridge, testing your nerves, daring you even to touch it.
I’ve often found sardines to be a better concept than actual food. They convey images of Mediterranean beach grills, smoldering embers, and olives. But they’re often extremely fishy. This past summer, blinded by a Mediterranean haze, I bought a handful and threw them on the grill, only to be disappointed by their intense flavor.
That oiliness, however, is also the upside to a sardine. The fat and oil allow the fish to char, creating a beautiful, smoky, crust to offset the fishiness. Get a little acid and herb into the flesh and they’re even milder. They’re also great in a sandwich. So is tongue, by the way, as long as someone else makes it.
Broiled Sardines w/ Dill and Blood Orange
Serves 2 as an appetizer
1 blood orange, sliced paper thin, each slice halved to fit inside the fish
1 small handful dill, coarsely chopped
zest of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon Szechuan peppercorns, ground finely
8 sardines, cleaned
¼ cup olive oil
salt
- In a small bowl mix the dill and lemon zest. Stuff the sardines with the mixture and blood orange slices. Lay on a baking sheet, season with salt and the Szechuan peppercorns. Drizzle all over with the oil and shake the tray to gently roll in the oil.
- Broil about 2 minutes per side, or until nicely colored. Eat immediately.
Cucumber Kimchee w/ Steak Tartare
Imagine a line graph of dishes cooked at home nationwide. Minus extensive (or any) googling, I envision a single line soaring way above the rest. This would be, of course, the pasta line. Kid-friendly and quick, pasta is almost divinely constructed for dinnertime consumption.
Crawling along the bottom depths of the graph, I see recipes that take a long time to make, active or inactive, especially those with multiple steps and a long list of ingredients and required pot washing. For example: real chicken pot pie, from scratch quiche, a variety of risottos, from scratch layer cakes, and so on.
Completely off the chart would be kimchee, the spicy Korea condiment made from a variety of vegetables and seafood. Almost by definition, kimchee is fermented, preferably packed in a jug buried in the yard. To make kimchee is to step into the world of the long wait, the culinary equivalent of sitting in a busted subway car. Not eagerly embraced.
And yet, there is quick kimchee, cucumber being among the tastiest. As in most kimchee, the main ingredient (cukes) is heavily salted, which extracts a ton of water, allowing it both to absorb the flavorings and come together as a uniform relish rather than a soupy mess. However, the cukes remain crisp, the kimchee is ready to go within a few hours, and even improves over time.
On the other side of the spectrum, steak tartare is fast food: mix ground beef with stuff and serve cold. As it happens, this instant dish goes beautifully with a bit of kimchee: the rich beef balanced by the spicy kimchee. We tossed the beef only with a bit of mayo rather than the usual capers and so on; the kimchee has plenty of spice and acid. Serve this with some toasted bread and you’ve got a powerful mouthful: quick food and slow food, all in one bite.
(NOTE: the recipe makes a ton of kimchee, but it lasts in the fridge for 2 months. It goes without saying, for steak tartare you need high quality beef.)
Steak Tartare w/ Cucumber Kimchee
Makes 8-10 pieces
For the Kimchee (adapted from The Kimchee Cookbook)
6 pounds cucumbers, washed, unpeeled
5 oz sea salt
4 oz fish sauce
3 oz garlic, minced
1 oz ginger, minced
1 oz sugar
3 oz hot chili flakes
1 pound carrots, julienned finely
2 bunches scallions, white and green, sliced thinly
Toast Points
Steak Tartare (below)
- Trim ends of cucumbers, quarter lengthwise and cut in ½ inch chunks. Sprinkle with the salt and let sit in a colander set over a large bowl for ½ hour. Reserve the drained liquid.
- Toss the cucumber with the remaining ingredients as well as the drained cucumber water. Serve immediately or store in a covered container in the fridge for up to 2 months.
- Top a toast point with about 1 tablespoon of the beef and a little kimchee.
Simple Steak Tartare
½ pound high quality beef (filet preferably), ground
2 tablespoons mayo
salt and pepper
1. In a cold bowl, mix the beef with the mayo until combined. Season and keep cold until ready to serve.
Tuna Tartare Bite
We seldom eat in the sort of restaurant that serves an amuse bouche. The amuse bouche, a tiny bite before you get the menu, is generally found in fancy restaurants. It’s a sign of graciousness and a signal that you’re about to embark on a luxurious culinary journey. It’s also a sure sign that the bill will be grossly enlarged, a tab that sure ain’t paying for the amuse bouche or the guy who assembled it.
The brilliance of the thing, you see, has nothing to do with its substance, and everything to do with the bottom line. A shot glass of creamy potato-leek soup? A pastry cup filled with mushrooms? A cherry tomato carved in the shape of a football and injected with cactus syrup? Free stuff? They’ve got you hook line and sinker.
The best way to enjoy an amuse bouche is at home, as part of whatever you’re eating that night. If you have split pea soup lying around (as we did last week), and someone visits for dinner, add a little cream, pour a little into a shot glass and serve. It’s kind of a nice gesture. Even better, if you’re having fresh fish, lop off a tiny segment, chop it up into a tartare and serve over ice.
If you’re having a sub from White House Subs in Atlantic City, just eat the thing. Hard to deconstruct a sub into an amuse bouche. It seems tartare might be expensive, but at, say, $15 a pound for good tuna, 4 oz sets you back 4 or 5 bucks. So if you’re feeling fancy, go ahead, it’s a nice bite of fish. Make sure it’s plenty cold.
Tuna Tartare w/ Crème Fraiche (Amuse Bouche)
Serves 4
4 oz fresh tuna, chopped finely
2 tablespoons crème fraiche or sour cream
1 teaspoon finely diced tomato, no seeds
1 teaspoon minced shallot
1 teaspoon minced capers
salt
- Fold the shallot, tomato, and capers into the crème fraiche. Season with salt. If you have a 1-inch ring mold: spoon some tuna into the mold, press lightly, and remove. Repeat with the remaining tuna and refrigerate until cold. If you don’t have a mold, serve in a teeny tiny mound.
- Place a dab of the sauce on top and serve. (the tip of a paring knife works well.)
Polenta Fries with Capers and Creme Fraiche
I’ll never understand some of the stuff people make at home. Crackers, for instance. Or bagels. Or potato chips. Crackers aren’t so great anyway, so what’s the point? And homemade bagels deserve a “nice try” but not much else. Potato chips is possibly the worst idea. After all, you may not live near a great bagel place, but you can get chips anywhere.
I’m not proud to say that once I attempted to create homemade chips. Like most makers of store-intended items, I began with the arrogant notion that mine would surpass the bagged junk consumed throughout the nation. That illusion was shattered the moment I spooned out my first batch of soggy discs. Ratcheting up the flame didn’t help much either; soon my tray was piled high with charred ex-potato shards.
Optimism became disappointment and disappointment became grief. Unfortunately, the more I stared at the oil splatter and ruined chips, the more my grief switched to anger. Were this a movie I would have, whirled about the apartment in a rage, sweeping books off the shelves and throwing plates. But when you’ve become blindingly mad possess a pot of hot oil, the only thing to do is toss the oil out the window, which I did. Luckily, it was late and I lived on a quiet street, but it’s not something I’m proud of.
Years later, I’ve learned my lesson. Making chips and French fries is a waste, but not so making polenta fries. Polenta fries taste extra crispy and, naturally, corny. They’re also pretty simple: they don’t require the two-step French fry process, and all you have to do is chill the polenta, slice and fry. Ketchup with these sounds pretty gross, but whipped crème fraiche or sour cream does the trick.
The moral of the story is to leave crackers and chips to the giant conglomerates. If you have a yen for cooking tasty, fried, crispy snacks, polenta chips is a good option. Incidentally, the morning after my medieval oil dump, I slipped on the stuff, a great moment in culinary history.
(NOTE: these things are pretty delicate, i.e. they break, so when you’re ready to serve, don’t launch them into the bowl, just slide them in.)
Polenta Fries w/ Crème Fraiche
Makes about 3 dozen fries
½ cup instant polenta flour
2 ½ cups water
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups flour
salt and pepper
1 cup crème fraiche or sour cream
2 tablespoons capers, drained
zest 1 lemon
oil for frying
- Coat the bottom and sides of a standard loaf pan with the olive oil. Bring the water to a simmer in a small pot. Add the polenta in a thin stream, whisking vigorously. It’s done when it thickens and starts releasing from the sides of the pot but is still pourable, 10-15 minutes. Pour into the loaf pan making sure it’s even, let cool and refrigerate until chilled and firm.
- Heat 3-4 inches of oil in a large pot to 325. Meanwhile, invert the chilled polenta and slice into even fries, about 4 inches by ½ inch. Add the flour to a large bowl. Line a tray with paper towels.
- When the oil is hot, dredge polenta in the flour, shaking off excess flour, and add to the oil. Do this in batches and don’t melt your fingers. Use a slotted spoon to swirl them around so they don’t stick and remove to the tray when golden and crispy, 3-4 minutes. Sprinkle with salt. Add the capers and fry quickly until crispy.
- In a small bowl, whisk the crème fraiche or sour cream to stiff peaks and season with salt and pepper. Put the fries in a bowl, sprinkle with the capers and serve.
