Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat

by Samin Nosrat

  Meats

  I used to turn my nose up at boiled meat, which really ought to be called simmered meat, but that was before I discovered Nerbone, a sandwich stand in Florence’s Mercato Centrale. The lunch lines at Nerbone were the longest in the market, so I decided to investigate. While I stood in line, I eavesdropped as everyone ahead of me in line ordered, trying to decipher their words. Even though there was a full lunch menu replete with pastas and main courses, everyone disregarded it, instead ordering panini bolliti—boiled beef sandwiches—garnished with chili oil and an herby salsa verde.

  When I got to the front of the line, I carefully placed my order in Italian, “Un panino bollito con tutte due le salse.” A boiled beef sandwich with both sauces. Though I’d been in Italy for less than a week, I’d studied Italian intensively before arriving. I may have overestimated my grasp of the language. When the man at the counter said something to me in Tuscan dialect, I froze. I refused to admit that I had absolutely no clue what he’d just said. I nodded vehemently and paid the cashier. He handed me my sandwich, which I took outside to eat on the steps of the market. I took a bite, expecting to taste the tender, flavorful brisket I’d seen him slicing for the others, but that wasn’t what I got. I was totally thrown off at first. I had no idea what was wrong with my sandwich. If this was indeed brisket, it was definitely the weirdest brisket I’d ever had. How could this strange-textured, off-tasting thing be what everyone was lining up for? After a brief panic, I forced myself to continue chewing and swallow. I went back and hovered at the sandwich stand, studying the signs, until I finally figured out that the man at the counter had been trying to tell me he’d sold out of brisket. All he had left was lampredotto, a Florentine specialty. With my vehement nodding, I’d signaled that I’d be fine with tripe instead of brisket. I forced myself to eat that sandwich, even though I’d never before—and have never since—enjoyed tripe. It may not have been suited to my tastes, exactly, but I will say—it was the most tender meat I’d ever had. The next time I returned to Nerbone, I got there early to beat the lunch rush. The brisket sandwich was the best I’d ever had. Eventually, when my language skills improved, I asked the counter guy how he got the meat so tender and moist. He looked at me, bewildered. “È semplice. Arrivo ogni mattina alle sei e lo cuoco a fuoco lento—It’s simple. I get here every morning at six and simmer it.”

  And then he added, “L’acqua non dovrebbe bollire mai—The water must never boil.”

  He was right—there’s no recipe for meat more straightforward than “Simmer in salted water.” Such a simple preparation leaves lots of room for exotic or savory garnishes. That is its beauty. Vietnam’s chicken noodle soup Pho Gà, a model of clarity, is most inviting to a long list of garnishes including scallions, mint, cilantro, chilies, and lime.

  Cuts of meat with lots of connective tissue, such as chicken thighs, brisket, and pork shoulder are perfect for simmering, as the water and gentle heat will transform collagen into gelatin overtime without drying out the exterior. To yield the most flavorful meat, place it in boiling, salted water, then turn it down to a simmer. For tasty meat and broth, start with simmering water. Add a few aromatics—half an onion, a few cloves of garlic, bay leaves, or a dried chili—and leave the slate otherwise blank. Over the course of the week, refer to The World of Flavor and turn the meat into a different dish each night. How to know when the meat is done? It’ll be falling off the bone, or if boneless, it’ll be mouthwateringly tender.

  Starches

  Starchy carbohydrates prosper at a simmer, which rattles their tough skins and encourages water to flow inside. Simmer potatoes, beans, rice, and all manner of grains until they’ve absorbed enough water to be tender.

  As with boiled meat, heighten the flavor of any starch by simmering it in a savory cooking liquid. Cook rice in unskimmed chicken stock, as Thai cooks do for khao man gai, and you’ll give a modest meal of rice, greens, and an egg a little meaty edge. When my grandparents took me on a trip into the mountains towering above their village in northern Iran, each morning I eagerly looked forward to a breakfast of haleem: the hearty, nutritious porridge of wheat, oats, and turkey simmered slowly together in stock or milk warmed me up in spite of the crisp mountain air.

  Porridges, including polenta, grits, and oatmeal, are variations on this theme—simmer these starches in water, milk, or whey, the clear liquid that gathers atop yogurt, until they grow tender. Because they are so starchy, stir these dishes often to prevent scorching.

  Risotto, paella, and fideus react similarly. Make risotto with arborio rice, a variety with a remarkable capacity to absorb an immense amount of liquid without falling apart. After toasting the onions and browning the rice in fat, add flavorful liquids, such as wine, stock, or tomatoes. As the pot simmers, the rice takes on liquid and gives off starch. The more flavorful the liquid, the more flavorful the finished dish will be. Fideus, a similar dish from Spain, is made with toasted noodles instead of rice. Paella, too, is built on the concept of a thirsty starch drinking up a flavorful stock. Traditionally, paella isn’t stirred but left untouched as it cooks, and is prized for the soccorat, or crisp crust of rice that forms at the bottom of the pan as a result.

  Pasta will also absorb flavorful liquids. As I described in the walkthrough for Pasta alle Vongole, one of my favorite tricks is to pull the noodles from the boiling water a minute or two early and let them finish cooking in a pan of simmering sauce. This allows the noodles and the sauce to unify into a single entity—as the pasta cooks, it gives off starch and takes on liquid. As a result, the sauce absorbs its starch and thickens. And the pasta takes on the sauce’s flavor. There’s nothing else like it.

  Vegetables

  Simmer fibrous or tough vegetables—those particularly rich in cellulose—that require extended cooking to be rendered edible. Spare fennel and artichokes (and cardoons, their thistly cousins) from the tumult of boiling to keep them from falling apart. Instead, simmer them until tender with equal parts water and wine spiked with olive oil, vinegar, and aromatics to cook them à la grecque.

  Coddling and Poaching

  If simmering water resembles a glass of champagne, then the water for poaching and coddling should look like a glass of champagne you poured last night but (somehow!) forgot to drink. The extra-gentle heat of water used for coddling and poaching is perfect for delicate proteins—eggs, fish, shellfish, and tender meats. Fish poached in water, wine, olive oil, or any combination of the three will emerge with an exceptionally tender texture and clean flavor. A poached or coddled egg can turn toast, salad, or soup into a meal. Poach eggs in spicy tomato sauce and you’ll have shakshuka, the popular North African dish. Use leftover marinara sauce for the endeavor and garnish with abundant Parmesan or pecorino Romano for uova al purgatorio, the Italian version with a slightly sinister name. Either will make a fine meal at any time of day.

  Bain-marie

  A bain-marie, or water bath, will help expand the narrow margin of error for cooking curds, custards, bread puddings, and soufflés, and for other delicate tasks such as melting chocolate. For these temperamental dishes, where just a few moments of neglect can mean the difference between silky and lumpy or smooth and grainy, welcome the assistance a water bath offers.

  Bains-marie are generally used in the oven to regulate heat; though the oven temperature might be at 350°F, the temperature of the bath won’t exceed water’s boiling point of 212°F. But overcook a custard, or misjudge how much heat will carry over, and you’ll end up with grainy pot de crème, stiff crème caramel, or cracked cheesecake. Pull custards from the oven and the water bath in anticipation of the residual heat that encourages coagulation to continue even as the egg proteins cool. I once pulled a still-jiggling cheesecake from the oven. Cooling on the countertop, it looked so textbook-perfect that I kept making excuses to walk by and gaze at it. When I passed through the kitchen for the twentieth time—after about four hours—a mighty crack had suddenly appeared, signaling that I’d overcooked it. I’
d underestimated the power of carryover; the jiggle hadn’t been jiggly enough!

  To bake in a bain-marie, put a kettle on to boil while you prepare your custard base. If you have a wire rack, place it into an empty roasting pan—preferably metal—and lay the empty ramekins or cake pan atop it and fill them with custard. If you don’t have a wire rack, it’s fine—just be a tad more vigilant about checking your custards for doneness. Carefully carry the pan to the oven. Working quickly, open the oven door, place the pan partway on the rack, and pour in enough boiling water to go one-third the way up the sides of the custards. Slide the pan in, shut the oven door, and set a timer. A baked custard is generally done when a tap to the edge of the dish leaves behind a faint jiggle in its wake, but the center is no longer liquid. Upon removing them from the oven, carefully pull custards from the water.

  For gentle heat on the stove, use a slightly different kind of bain-marie, heated by steam rather than hot water. You don’t need the whole setup known as a double boiler; you can simply place a large bowl over a pot of barely simmering water, in order to gently heat eggs and dairy to room temperature for use in baking, to melt chocolate, to make certain sauces that contain egg, such as béarnaise and hollandaise, or sabayon, a classic stovetop custard. Just as the heat of a bain-marie protects custards from overcooking in the oven, it also protects them on the stove.

  The gentle heat of a bain-marie is also handy for keeping starchy or temperamental cooked foods such as mashed potatoes, creamy soups, hot chocolate, and gravy warm until serving, without the risk of burning them.

  Stewing and Braising

  Twentieth-century poet Mark Strand neatly addressed the time-flavor continuum for braised meats in his poem “Pot Roast.” Upon inspection of the saucy slices of braised beef on his plate, with mouthwatering anticipation, he declared, “And for once I do not regret / the passage of time.”

  Reading the poem, I know exactly how he must have felt, impatiently waiting for hours for the tender meat to emerge from the oven. Indeed, the key to any good stew or braise is the passage of time. Though investing time in cooking—or in anything—can turn some of us off from the endeavor, with braises the investment requires little of us but delivers big results.

  As my grandmother demonstrated with her flavorful khoreshs, it’s time in braising and stewing, along with water and the implicit gentle heat, which allows for the connective tissue in the tough cuts of meat to transform into gelatin, leaving meat tender, luscious, and moist. The difference between the two methods is minor: braises involve larger pieces of meat—often on the bone—and minimal cooking liquid, while stews are made with smaller pieces of meat cooked with chunky vegetables, typically served together in the plentiful cooking liquid. Greens, dense vegetables, stone fruits, and tofu also lend themselves well to braising.

  At Chez Panisse, I watched chefs buy whole animals and devise creative ways to use up all of the tough, sinewy cuts. Some we cured, others we ground into sausage, and the rest we braised and stewed. For months I watched with awe as the cooks set out several cast iron pans to heat up over a medium-high flame, then added a splash of neutral tasting olive oil into the pan and lay in big pieces of beef, lamb, or pork to brown. How did they keep tabs on all of the different pans, all of the different pieces of meat? How could they turn their backs on six pans of cooking meat in order to peel and slice the onions, garlic, carrots, and celery for the aromatic flavor base? How did they know what temperature to set the burner or oven to, and how long to cook the meat? And when could I try?

  With the long lens of hindsight at my disposal, I’ve learned that the best thing about braises is that they’re nearly impossible to ruin. If I could go back and tell my nineteen-year-old self to relax, I would. And then I’d walk her through the few important landmarks of setting up and cooking a braise or stew.

  Every cuisine around the world has devised ways to turn cartilaginous, bony, and sinewy meats into delicious braises and stews. This is true of Italian osso buco, Japanese nikujaga, Indian lamb curry, French boeuf bourguignon, Mexican pork adobo, and Mr. Strand’s pot roast. Use the chart of aromatic flavor bases from around the world to determine what vegetables and herbs you’d like to use, and refer to The World of Flavor to choose your flavorings.

  Think of these long-cooked dishes as opportunities to layer in flavor. Every step of the way, consider how to infuse the most flavor into the dish and extract the deepest flavor out of every individual ingredient. Apply the principles of braising and stewing to any tough cut of meat. To preserve flavor, leave the meat in large pieces and on the bone when possible. And remember to season the meat in advance to let salt do its important work of flavoring from within.

  When it’s time to cook, preheat a skillet over a medium-high flame, pour in a thin layer of neutral-tasting oil, and carefully place in the pieces of meat. Make sure none of the pieces touch, to encourage steam to escape and to allow for even browning. Then do what I once found so difficult, and step away. The keys to beautiful, even browning are steady heat and patience. If you move the meat around too often, or just keep picking it up to check on it, it will take an absurdly long time to brown. Resist that urge, and instead work on the aromatic flavor base.

  In a separate pan, or perhaps the same Dutch oven you plan to cook the braise, build flavor by cooking down and slightly browning your vegetables, which can be as minimal as an onion and a couple of garlic cloves if you’re not feeling up for a hunt for ginger or cilantro. As the vegetables cook, check on the meat, turning the pieces and rotating the pan to get even browning. If so much fat renders from the meat that instead of searing the meat begins to fry, remove the meat from the pan and carefully pour some of the hot fat into a metal bowl and set aside. Return the meat to the pan and continue to brown on all sides. It can take upwards of fifteen minutes to properly brown a piece of beef or pork on all its sides. Do not rush this step—you want the meat to reap all of the savory benefits of the Maillard reaction.

  When you’ve finished browning the meat, dump out any remaining fat and deglaze the pan with your liquid of choice, be it stock or water. Remember, this is an ideal moment to work in a cooking acid, so consider adding some wine or beer. Use a wooden spoon and some elbow grease to get all of the tasty brown bits unstuck so you can add them into the braising pan. Build the braise with the vegetables and herbs on the bottom, then place in the meat—here it’s all right if pieces touch as long as they all fit in a single layer, since browning isn’t a concern any longer—and then add the deglazing liquid. Top off with more water or stock to come up about a third or halfway up the meat—any more and you’ll be poaching rather than braising. Seal the pan with a lid, or parchment paper and foil, and bring everything to a boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer. On the stove, this is simple enough, but in the oven, that means cranking the temperature up to high (425°F and above), and then turning it down to medium-low (275°F to 350°F). The lower the temperature, the longer the braise will take, but the less likely the meat will dry out. If the liquid can’t help but boil, flip the lid ajar or tear open the edge of the foil to encourage the temperature inside the pan to drop.

  Again, patience is key, but the boon is that this is passive cooking time. As long as you check on the pan from time to time to make sure the liquid remains at a slight simmer and nothing more, you can go about your day as you like. The only hustle involved in braising is setting everything up and getting it into the oven. (Or any source of steady or gentle heat.) Once it’s in, you can breathe easy.

  How to know when it’s done? I wondered the same thing at nineteen, in the kitchen at Chez Panisse. But I soon learned that the meat should fall off the bone at the gentlest touch. In boneless braises, meat should be fork-tender. Pull the pan from the heat and let it cool before straining the cooking liquid. Pass the solids through a food mill for a thicker sauce, and taste it and decide if you’d like to reduce it to intensify flavor before adding any salt.

  These techniques are ideal for preparing f
ood in advance. Time performs a potent alchemy on cooked braises and stews, improving flavor with a day or two of rest. Because it liberates the cook from last-minute demands, this kind of cooking is ideal for dinner parties. Braises and stews make for excellent leftovers and freeze well, too. With its basic technique, braising can be the most effortless path toward deeply flavorful food.

  Blanching and Boiling

  Blanching is boiling by another name, and the key to both is to keep the water at a boil. In Salt, I described how foods need to frolic when boiled in salty waves to cook evenly.

  Add too much food to too little water, and a pot’s temperature will drop drastically. A rolling boil will come to a rocking halt. Pasta will clump. Basmati rice for Persian-ish Rice will stick. Pencil-thin asparagus spears will pile up on the bottom of the pot and cook unevenly. Do justice to any food you blanch and keep water at a rolling boil by using twice as much as you think you need.

  Vegetables

  Boiling is an extraordinarily efficient cooking method, perfect for preserving the flavor of fresh vegetables. Boil vegetables long enough to let heat degrade their internal cell walls and release their sugars, and so that their starches can convert to sugars, developing sweetness. But be careful not to cook them so long that their vibrant colors begin to fade or their cell walls break down entirely, resulting in mushy textures. Choose to boil vegetables when you’re short on time, or when you’re seeking clean flavors. Boil everyday vegetables such as turnips, potatoes, carrots, and broccoli and dress them with good olive oil and flaky salt. You’ll be pleasantly surprised by their pristine simplicity.