Skillet Doux

Deconstructing Garlic

	Dominic Armato

The garlic press has always been a forbidden item in my kitchen.

It's a prejudice I've held for a long, long time. I've always believed that whether garlic is minced or crushed has a significant effect on the dish the garlic flavors. While I've always felt that minced or sliced garlic is far, far superior to its crushed counterpart when it comes to pasta sauces, I've also wondered in the back of my head if this preference was purely a figment of my imagination. Then, way back in January, a thread popped up on LTH Forum wherein there was a lively discussion regarding whether alternate means of breaking down garlic affected the character of the flavor, or merely its strength. The suggestion was also made that microplaning garlic, which I had never tried, might achieve a minced garlic flavor with a crushed garlic potency. At that time, I resolved to approach this question in a semi-scientific manner. It... uh... took a little while, but I finally got around to it this evening. As such, without further ado, I present my semi-scientific findings.

Question, Purpose, Hypothesis
The subject of this experiment is the effect that various methods of breaking down garlic have on its flavor when used to prepare a dish. The hypothesis is that not only does mincing garlic create a different flavor than crushing it, but also that mincing is the preferred method for pasta sauces. Furthermore, the experiment is intended to determine if microplaning garlic achieves a character different from mincing or crushing.

	Dominic Armato

Materials and Method
The following items were used to perform this experiment:

• 1 8" Le Creuset cast iron skillet
• 1 wooden spatula
• 1 chef's knife
• mortar & pestle
• 1 microplane
• 1 measuring cup
• 1 measuring spoon
• Raineri silver extra virgin olive oil
• Carmelina San Marzano tomato puree
• 12 garlic cloves
• coarse sea salt

To simulate a real-world application, three quick tomato sauces were prepared, each utilizing a different preparation of garlic. The garlic used for each version of the sauce was made from four cloves of approximately equal size. The first sauce was made with garlic that was finely minced using a chef's knife. The second sauce was made with garlic that was very finely shredded using a microplane grater. The third sauce was made with garlic that was crushed using a mortar and pestle. Other than the garlic preparation, every effort was made to ensure that the sauces were prepared in exactly the same manner. A test batch of tomato sauce was first made and discarded so that all three sauces would be prepared with a warm skillet. The following steps were common to all three sauces. First, the pan was washed, dried and set over medium-low heat. 1 Tbsp. of the olive oil was added to the pan, and allowed to heat for one minute. The garlic was added to the pan and sauteed while being mixed with the wooden spatula. After 30 seconds, 1/2 C. tomato puree and 1/2 tsp. salt were added to the pan, the sauce was stirred, and the heat increased to medium. As soon as the sauce showed signs of bubbling, the heat was turned to low, and the sauce was allowed to simmer, undisturbed, for exactly five minutes. The sauce was transferred to a small prep bowl, the skillet was washed and dried, and the entire process was repeated for the other two garlic preparations.

Dominic Armato

When all three sauces were prepared, they were allowed to sit at room temperature for ten minutes. After this time, they were placed atop ramekins containing a scrap of paper identifying the garlic preparation used for that sauce. They were then covered with plastic wrap and allowed to sit at room temperature for approximately one hour, to lessen the chance of the order of preparation affecting the flavor at the time of tasting. After sitting for an hour, the finished sauces were microwaved for ten seconds. This was to achieve two purposes, first to heat them slightly, and second so that the microwave turntable could randomize their placement, making it impossible for the taster to identify which sauce was which. The sauces were then tasted in sequence twice, to lessen the variation caused by tasting one sauce cleanly while tasting the others having come off another sauce. They were tasted in very low light conditions, to make it impossible for the taster to identify the sauces by the very slight variations in appearance. A small piece of plain bread was eaten in between each tasting to act as a palate cleanser. After the tasting was completed, the prep bowls were removed from the ramekins so that tasting notes could be matched up with the appropriate garlic preparations.

	Dominic Armato

Results
The minced garlic sauce had a fairly strong garlic flavor, which was described by the taster as sweet, mellow and slightly tart and spicy. The crushed garlic sauce had a garlic flavor that was similar to the minced garlic sauce in terms of potency, but different in terms of character. The taster described the crushed garlic sauce as fairly sour up front, with a slightly spicy but mostly bitter tail and an almost metallic aftertaste. The microplaned garlic sauce was by far the strongest of the three, characterized as extremely potent. The taster described it as having a very spicy and peppery flavor, with a little bitterness and no detectable sweetness. In terms of preference, the taster expressed a very strong preference for the minced garlic sauce, which was described as delicious. The crushed garlic sauce was described as edible, but not very good. The microplaned garlic sauce was described as very bad, and not at all pleasant.

Conclusions
This experiment has helped to erase any lingering doubts I had about my convictions when it comes to sliced or minced versus crushed garlic. In fact, I was surprised to discover that the difference between the minced and crushed garlic sauces was even more significant than I had previously thought. The crushed garlic wasn't bad, but it was an obvious difference and far less desirable for any pasta sauce application that I can think of offhand. However, I think it's important to note that the crushed garlic flavor wasn't necessarily bad in general, it was simply inappropriate in this context. The microplaned garlic, however, was an entirely different matter. It was considerably stronger, to be sure, but it was also a very different character. It was not at all pleasant. While there are clearly applications for crushed garlic, I have a much harder time imagining a a recipe for which I'd use the microplaned garlic.

I await peer review.

Refining a Recipe

	Dominic Armato

It's funny... I almost didn't post that last recipe because I knew it was a late night makeshift work in progress version that was going to change a lot before I was happy with it :-)

But spurred on by a couple of questions/comments, I figured it might be fun to turn my error analysis and adjustment into a public process, and then repost the recipe as the final, refined version that I envision. To that end, here are the items I want to address when I get around to v2, hopefully sometime later this week:

"The tomato dip needs work..."
As originally envisioned, I thought of it as a nicely herbed tomato soup that was cooked much thicker than usual so that it worked better as a dip. What I had on hand was a good jar of Italian tomato sauce and some pecorino, so I decided to roll with that rather than fight it. The biggest difference is that this dip was fairly coarse, like... surprise... a pasta sauce. If I did it again, I'd probably combine the tomato puree with some chicken stock and herbs (Basil's a gimme. Thyme and bay leaf might be nice. Depends on my mood.), cook for a while, then strain through a chinois to get it as smooth as possible and continue reducing until I had a nice, thick sauce. A very restrained hit of cream might not be bad, but I wouldn't use much if I did.

"I'd use different cheeses for the filling..."
For Iron Chef, I'd do some funky blend because... well... it's Iron Chef :-) As a day-to-day recipe, I'm a champion of muenster when it comes to grilled cheese sandwiches. It lays down a nice, mellow, melty baseline, but generally speaking, I'd probably still punch it up a bit with something else. Some gruyere or emmentaler might be nice. Some melty sheep's milk cheese with a little tartness would be nice, too... I'd have to think about what kind would be best.

"I want the sandwich to be a lot more stick-like..."
The whole fun of the original idea was the dipping bit, which was lost with this version. I'm thinking slicing the bread thinner, going lighter on the filling and toasting BOTH sides of the bread would do the trick. As for the bread itself, what we had on hand was 12 grain sandwich bread. Don't get me wrong, I loves me some grains, but it was a little too much roughage for a grilled cheese. The result was an "I have 12 whole grains / I'm slathered in butter" sandwich with MPD. Any thinner sandwich bread would do. Or maybe I'd get a good crusty loaf of sourdough and make sandwich slices out of the middle.

"The whole enterprise is just crying out for some crispy sizzled sausage..."
It really, really is. I think I'd brown the sausage first, remove it from the pan, use the sausage drippings to caramelize the onions and then mix the sausage back in when building the sandwich. And since it's all in the same pan, that sausage goo would work its way into the bread as well. Mmmmmm, sausage. Mabye a Merguez sausage? I don't see Italian working very well. I think chorizo could do well with a light hand, but it'd be easy to overdo it. Or maybe andouille with thyme and bay leaf in the tomato dip. That'd be tasty.

All in all, based on these notes, I think Spanish looks like a good direction to take it. I'll pick out a complementary Spanish cheese, find some good Spanish sausage, refine the technique on the dip and the bread consistency, and get back to you all in a week or so :-)

Have Roll, Will Travel

	Dominic Armato

'Cause I need more kitchen toys, right?

In all seriousness, this is a fantastic gift. For our wedding, our good pals Doug and Rob opted to give my bride and I separate presents rather than a joint household item. So while my ladylove swoons over the Winery Dogs of Napa Valley, I'll be drooling over the most beautiful method possible for transporting my toys.

This roll will see some serious use.

Cooking in a foreign kitchen only to discover there isn't a good, sharp knife anywhere to be found is one of those silly little things that drives me to the brink of insanity. Sparse utensil drawer? Who cares. Old, beaten-up pots and pans? I'll make do. But when all of the available cutlery is either serrated or more akin to a letter opener, I die a little. Now, instead of confusing people by rifling through kitchen drawers, grunting as I reject one knife after another, I can instead scare people by taking an impressive array of honed steel with me wherever I go.

Doug, Rob, thanks... and feel free to feed my obsession anytime.

Holy Cow

It's a horrible pun, I apologize, but this beef is positively divine.

I'd like to officially take back any disparaging remarks I may or may not have made about Wagyu-Angus crossbreeds. While I strenuously object to Snake River Farm's debasing of the term "Kobe beef" (if it isn't from the Kobe prefecture, it isn't Kobe, Wagyu or no), I can't deny the fact that their product is absolutely incredible. As previously mentioned, I wanted to use some Wagyu beef for Iron Chef Garlic, but the minimum order at my local purveyor was a full pound whlie I only needed a half. So I decided to give myself a treat for what I assumed, in advance, would be an Iron Chef well-fought. As such, when my one pound NY strip arrived, I had the butcher deli-slice half of it into the carpaccio-thin pieces I needed for my Iron Chef dish, and I retained the rest as an 8-10 oz. half-inch thick steak for my Sunday dinner. This turned out to be a wise move, as I'm fairly certain that this piece of meat will easily coast into my top ten dishes of 2006.

But first, a little lesson in Wagyu.

Wagyu is the breed of cattle that is used to create the justifiably world-famous Kobe beef. Kobe beef is the legendary beef you've heard of; the product of cows that are regularly massaged and fed the highest quality grains and beer (yes, beer) to create a tender, rich, impossibly marbled steak that frequently commands prices in excess of $100/pound. While we, in the United States, are blessed with exceptionally good beef that is envied the world over (including Japan!), Kobe beef is a luxury food item that is so much in its own class that the US grading criteria don't even apply. Jake probably said it best when he labeled it "Magic Beef +3", and as proud as I was of my dish, he didn't even have it at its best. I regularly have Kobe shabu shabu when traveling in Japan, and I absolutely adore it, but rapidly boiling the beef in broth just doesn't unlock its full potential. It needs to be thinly sliced and quickly seared. If it cooks for too long, the precious fat cooks out, but you want a good sear to caramelize some of the fat and provide the incredibly rich flavor and texture that is almost crispy. It creates a beef flavor that is both full and rich, fatty and moist and succulent and sweet and amazing.

In any case, Kobe beef is like Champagne. There are many sparkling wines, and many the world over are quite exceptional, but if it isn't from Champagne, it isn't Champagne. Similarly, while Wagyu cattle bred and slaughtered outside of the Kobe prefecture may, in fact, be exceptional beef that is completely worthy, it isn't Kobe. Sadly, the on again / off again Japanese-American beef war is on again these days, so we're limited to a domestic supply at the moment. So if you see Kobe beef on a menu in the United States, it means one of two things:

1) The restaurant is smuggling Kobe into the country.
2) What you're actually eating is Wagyu or some crossbreed thereof, which may be tasty, but which almost assuredly isn't as good as the real item.

Nearly everything falls into the latter category. Unfortunately, without the strict quality enforcement that is used in Kobe, American Wagyu covers a wide, wide spectrum. Over the last year, Kobe has become such a culinary buzzword that any mangy American cow with the tiniest hint of Japanese ancestry, no matter how distant, will undoubtedly be sold as Kobe. I had read that many American ranchers were cross-breeding Wagyu with American Angus, in an effort to up production. As such, despite its impressive reputation, I approached my Snake River Farms bounty with mild suspicion.

My suspicion, it turns out, was entirely unwarranted.

I decided to keep things simple. I wanted to taste the beef. So I took my half a NY strip, seasoned it with coarse salt and freshly-ground pepper, and seared it for about two minutes per side in a hot cast-iron pan. Since it had been in my fridge for a couple of days, the result wasn't the prettiest steak I've ever had, but it's quite possible that it was the tastiest. Of course, I am a condiment fiend, so I wanted to put together a little dip of some kind, but I endeavored to keep it light. I'd recently read Jeffrey Steingarten's article on the subject, and he referenced a sauce composed of soy sauce, honey, garlic and miso. All four were in my larder at the time, so I quickly tossed them together and tore into my beef.

I cannot describe how heavenly it was. I mean, it was truly incredible. And not only did it seem that the Wagyu-Angus fusion (dubbed "Wangus" by Jake) wasn't harmful, but rather it gave a new dimension to Wagyu that I'd never tasted before. The steak had the incredible moist, fatty, creamy richness that I've come to expect from Kobe, but there was also an assertive beefy tail that smacked of the American beef I was raised on. It isn't quite the ultra-decadent experience I've had in Japan, but the fact remains that this is a healthy, stable marriage that I hope will remain strong for years to come. At $60/pound, it's clearly special occasion food, but I've paid much, much more for meals that I've enjoyed much, much less. At Snake River Farms, they absolutely know what they're doing, and I look forward to my next good excuse so that I can once again place a special order with my butcher.

Spanking the Pomegranate, and OT Travesty

	Dominic Armato

The title may lead you to believe otherwise, but it's okay... this post is entirely work safe.

One of the things I love about Iron Chef is the team of sous chefs under duress saving time with cool little techniques. Most of them I've seen at one time or another, but I caught one tonight that was entirely new to me. Having sat down with pomegranates myself on a couple of occasions to try to remove seeds in an expedient manner while not totally destroying them, I was more than a little pleased to file this one away for future reference. One of the sous chefs had a pomegranate that he had halved, and was holding skin side up over a bowl. He then repeatedly spanked the rind of the fruit with the back of a heavy serving spoon, and piles of pomegranate seeds just dropped out. Fantastic.

There's a dramatic postscript to this Iron Chef report, but I'll provide a cut for those who do not wish to know the results of the Flay vs. Lee Battle Bacon:

Rant after the jump.

Thank You, Mr. Steingarten

	Dominic Armato

On the flight over to China, Jeffrey Steingarten managed to provide an answer to one of my fish questions in It Must've Been Something I Ate, an excellent collection of his essays for Vogue. I intend to write a little more about Mr. Steingarten later, who is rapidly becoming one of my culinary heroes, but for the moment I wanted to pass along a bit of info gleaned from his essay on toro.

When the Japanese fishmongers insert the long wire into the tail immediately after killing the fish, it turns out that I was correct in my suspicion that it is being sent straight down the spinal column. And while I had thought it was part of the killing process, it would instead seem that the fish is already dead from the first stroke, and that this second step is done to improve the flavor of the fish. The idea is to stop any contraction of the muscles (I assume by simply scrambling the neural tissue in the spinal column), so that there isn't a buildup of lactic acid in the meat as the fish goes through its death throes.

This is attention to detail that I appreciate.

Egg Poaching

	Dominic Armato

I still have a couple of Japan entries backlogged, but tonight's experimentation merited a little break. I think I've finally conquered poached eggs.

Poached eggs are tricky. Trying to get cooked yet tender whites and liquid but not watery yolks while keeping the egg in some semblance of a cohesive mass is a delicate balancing act. Yeah, you can use egg poachers, but I find that the texture is never as light and the presentation is somewhat less than impressive. Back in March, I got pretty good results by taking a minimal approach and leaving the eggs alone. But inspired by today's thread over at LTH Forum, I had a little brainstorm that I tested, and it worked fantastically well. I'm still not 100% certain whether this is a good idea, or if I've just been misreading instructions all these years and I'm stating the blatantly obvious, but here it is, anyway.

It's just a slight variation on one of the most traditional methods. I brought a pot of water along with about 1/4 C. of white vinegar just to the brink of boiling, then lowered the heat slightly so that it wouldn't boil. I took a coffee cup with a handle, and lightly oiled the inside. I cracked an egg into the cup, but instead of gently dropping the egg into the water, as is frequently suggested, I submerged the cup about 3/4 of the way in the water, so that the egg could set slightly while still protected inside the cup. I gave it about 10 seconds or so, then gently slipped it out of the cup. That short stint in the cup eliminated most of the little wisps that usually spread all over the place. I let the egg cook for 3-4 minutes, then removed it with a slotted spoon, and it came out perfectly.

Dominic Armato

Dominic Armato

It may or may not be worth noting that the cup I used bore an image of Gromit. Given his remarkable affinity for the fusion of things culinary and mechanical (the porridge cannon, for example), I can only assume that his canine visage helped me to achieve better than average results. Also, as mentioned back in March, I've been both surprised and thrilled by just how well poached eggs hold at cold temperatures. As instructed by The New Professional Chef (and hordes of other sources, I'm sure), when you remove the eggs from the simmering water, you can drop them into an ice bath and hold them there for a few hours. Then, you can gently reheat them in a pot of lightly salted water that's held at 120-140º. I had heard of this technique years ago, and had always assumed that it would adversely affect something as delicate as a poached egg. But I'm pleased to report that I didn't detect any deleterious effects of any kind.

Premium Fruit

	Dominic Armato

Part of the reason food is so fantastic in Japan is the nation's obsessive devotion to quality. These are broad generalizations, but in the US market, cost is almost always the first consideration. The price point for a product is determined first, and then the resources are adjusted to match the price. This happens in Japan also, to be sure, but it seems like there's a much larger market for products that are made to be the best they can possibly be, with little if any regard for cost. It's this frame of mind that gave birth to the premium packaging that drives me there for work, the pinnacle of beefy decadence that is Kobe beef, and even more surprisingly to most, Japan's premium fruit. To put premium Japanese fruit into context and make it sound slightly less insane, it's important to remember that in Japan, the practice of gift giving makes ours look simple by comparison. Combine a regimented social structure wth a culture that holds respect, status and politeness in exceptionally high regard, and you get the practice of okaeshi... giving return gifts of roughly half the value of the original gift. Throw in the aforementioned boundless pursuit of perfection, and you get $200 cantaloupes.

No, it's not an exaggeration. Of course, it should be obvious that not all Japanese produce is so expensive. Generally speaking, everyday produce seems a little pricey, but not unreasonably so, and given the tradeoff in quality, I'm inclined to believe that it's worth every penny. But premium fruit is another beast entirely. These fruits are bred to be the apotheosis of fruity goodness, and meticulously tended as they grow. They're sold at the peak of their ripeness, ornately packaged with more care than the average newborn child, and sold at a price that reflects the amount of care they've been given. The result is absolute perfection. Of course, the prices reflect the quality. $200 for a gift melon isn't the least bit unusual. The cherries you see pictured below sell for over $100 per box... more than $1 per cherry. Insanity? It would seem so. Until you taste some.

Dominic Armato

I've tasted Japanese premium fruit only once, and it was purely by accident. We were eating at Zakuro, our favorite shabu shabu joint, where you're constantly swarmed by an army of kimono-clad hostesses who endeavor to micromanage every little detail of your placesetting. Of course, nothing is done without permission. As such, when dining at Zakuro, you're constantly bombarded with questions... may I fill your drink, may I move your plate, or may I give you a napkin. So 98% of the time, they're just looking for simple acknowledgement before performing their myriad duties. The problem, when you don't speak Japanese, is determining which questions comprise the other 2%, and our inability to do so is how we ended up with the $40 peaches. Three of them. For dessert. And they were amazing. In the States, I'm convinced that you could eat 500 peaches during the peak season and not encounter one that was half as tasty as these. I know I had never had anything even remotely close in a lifetime of peach eating. They were incredibly sweet with just the right hint of sour and the most intense natural peach flavor I've ever encountered. The flesh was firm but yielding, perfectly uniform throughout and absolutely gushing juice. The fruits themselves were the size of softballs, perfectly shaped, perfectly colored and without the tiniest blemish. They were, for lack of a better word, absolutely perfect. This isn't to say that I intend to make a habit of consuming pieces of fruit that cost as much as a cheap dinner for four, but as a once in a long while event, I can't knock it for a moment. Those peaches made our lunch that day one of the best meals I've had in the last five years, and with culinary nirvana increasingly hard to come by, I see a $40 surcharge as a small price to pay for something truly special.

Tsukiji

	Dominic Armato

Between scurrying around Tokyo, sleepwalking through my return to the States and then, unfortunately, running off to a family funeral, finding the time to blog the past couple of weeks has been a little difficult. But the upside is that I now have a ton of backlog material to get through, and while I should probably wait and slowly build to what I consider Japan's main event, I can't wait any longer.

While in Tokyo, I finally visited one of the culinary wonders of the world, the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo. That's a touch misleading, as my father took me there when I was maybe 14 or 15, but it's been so long that I barely remembered my previous visit, except for the vague notion that it was really cool. I also originally saw it later in the morning when a lot of stalls had shut down, and I hadn't seen it since the growth of my appreciation for food markets, so I've been angling for a return visit our past few trips. I'm glad I finally made time.

Tsukjii is the largest fish market in the world, handling more than 2000 metric tons of seafood daily. And as we all know, metric tons are both larger and cooler than plain old tons. In any case, it's a lot of cool fish. The market is divided into three main sections. First, you have the innermost area where the tuna auctions are held, which is off-limits for those who aren't licensed wholesalers (unless, as it turns out, you get a special visitor's license ahead of time, which I may just need to research for my next visit). Then, you have the "outer market", which is where the 900 or so wholesalers make their wares available to the general public in a buzzing, densely packed covered market. Lastly, you have the surrounding neighborhood, where many small shops sell their wares on the street, many of them including fish purchased at the market proper. Of course, the surrounding neighborhood isn't limited to fish, but includes all kinds of food products, including meats, produce, kitchenwares, dry goods and others. I cruised through the surrounding neighborhood only very, very briefly, but I could spend an entire day exploring it, and I hope to on a future trip. The focus of this post, however, is the outer market, which is absolutely breathtaking. Of course, fish back home isn't anything like what we get in Japan, and this market is exactly why. My meager ability with words can't possibly do justice to the scale and energy of the market, so we'll make this a photo-heavy post with commentary. Be warned... many megs worth of photos are after the jump, but I've tried to provide reasonably-sized thumbnails that you can click on to see larger images.

Photos abound after the jump.

Casumziei Ampezzani

	Dominic Armato

In my zeal to talk up the Kitchenaid pasta rollers, I neglected to mention that I tried an interesting pasta this past Movie & Pasta Night.

The name is half the fun. At the risk of playing Mario Batali, casumziei are beet ravioli, with Ampezzani meaning that they're from Ampezzo, which is a little region in the north of the Veneto, situated in the Dolomite mountains. As such, had I been on the ball, our accompanying film would have been some classic blaxploitation flick. But I was too busy oohing and aahing over the pasta.

It's a little unusual. I've always felt that, while every region has its distinctive style, most of Italy plays by roughly the same set of rules... except for Sicily and the Veneto. The fact that Sicily's food is so unique doesn't surprise me one bit. It's separated from the rest of Italy by a ton of water, and... show of hands... who hasn't conquered Sicily at one time or another? The Veneto, on the other hand, I just don't get. If I were a well-informed Italian culinary historian, I'm sure I could explain why in exacting detail, but suffice it to say that the the foods of the Veneto are just different. And I love 'em for that.

Anyway, as with just about any good pasta, Casumziei Ampezzani is extremely simple. It's a very traditional dish that I don't have a terribly creative take on, and unlike the dried pasta, I haven't yet gotten around to writing the 10 commandments of fresh pasta, so no recipe for this one. But, here are a couple of recipes posted elsewhere, for the curious. The filling is roasted beets, ricotta and milk, and the sauce is melted butter and poppyseeds. A lot of poppyseeds. We're talking a "take a drug test and make your employer think you're a raging jacked-up coke fiend" amount of poppyseeds. A little bit of one of those northern hard cheeses is grated over the top, and there you go. Whether or not this one does it for you pretty much depends on how you feel about beets. I know a few folks who just don't do beets, and they're absolutely insane, but this probably isn't for them. That said, I think this is one of those "essence of" dishes, where if you try it and don't like it, okay... I surrender... beets just aren't your thing. If anything slathered in that much butter still doesn't do it for you, it's a pretty good indication that the love just isn't going to happen. Either way, they're pretty.