“Hey,” he said, “keep them going. I want a taste. It looks so good.” A classic streetwise New York cop! Right out of the movies.
And then there’s Brooklyn. It might be the most exciting place in the food world right now: people making the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted. Farmers and beekeepers working on the rooftops of old factories. Young chefs creating pure flavors and mixing different ethnic foods with no regard to any rules other than that it must taste good and be interesting. We cooked under the Brooklyn Bridge as the rising sun lit up the skyline of Wall Street. We took our grills to the streets of the gritty old neighborhood of Bushwick. It looked so forbidding, reminding me of how people told me the Buenos Aires neighborhood of La Boca was too rough for a fine restaurant when I moved there years ago. But Bushwick, like La Boca, was alive with youth and the excitement of urban pioneers.
One morning I took my grill to Red Hook, an ancient waterfront neighborhood. This was shortly before the greatest storm in the city’s history would wash away the very ground we had stood on and invade the streets like a marauding army. But on that peaceful late summer day, the breeze blew off the harbor; flights of ducks and geese, a mile long, made their way south for the winter; and feeding seagulls created mayhem as they dove into schools of baitfish that were penned up by hordes of migrating striped bass. A riot of nature in the midst of this stylish, sophisticated city, within sight of the skyscrapers where hedge-fund billionaires were involved in a different kind of feeding frenzy.
BIRDS
Smashed Chicken Breast in a Potato Crust with Tomato and Arugula Salad
Because chicken breasts are relatively thick, by the time the inside cooks through, the outside can be tough and lifeless. By pounding the breasts, you can cook the chicken rapidly so that it remains tender and juicy inside its “overcoat” of crisp potato slices. Here you need to monitor the heat so that the potatoes brown and crust over slowly. The result is two kinds of crunchiness, from the seared chicken and the potato crust. When I serve a milanesa (breaded veal chop), I like a fresh garden salad of ripe tomatoes, sharp onions, and greens, so I figured, “If it’s good for the calf, it’s good for the chicken.”
Use the removable bottom of a 9-inch tart pan to flip the chicken. The round shape makes it easier to slide it under the potatoes in a circular scooping motion, which helps the potatoes stick together and remain on the chicken. (If you don’t have one, use one or two wide spatulas.) SERVES 2
1 whole boneless chicken breast, skin on, about 1 pound
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or to taste
2 Idaho (baking) potatoes, scrubbed
About 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
About 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 large ripe tomato, cut into bite-sized pieces
½ small red onion, sliced very thin
1 small bunch arugula, tough stems removed
Lay the chicken skin side down on a work surface and pound it with a mallet to a thickness of about ¾ inch. Trim off any ragged edges. Season generously with salt, black pepper, and the red pepper flakes.
Slice the potatoes paper-thin on a mandoline. (Do not rinse or wipe them—you want to retain the starch.) Arrange an overlapping circle of potato slices around the top edge of the chicken, extending about ⅓ inch over the edge. Working toward the center, continue until you have a spiraling layer of potato slices covering the entire surface of the chicken. Press down firmly on the potatoes with the palm of your hand to set them in place.
Heat a chapa or a large cast-iron griddle over medium heat. Brush the hot surface generously with olive oil and dot it with half the butter. When the butter melts and begins to foam, slide the bottom of a metal tart pan beneath the chicken to lift it and invert it, potato side down, onto the hot chapa. Tuck any stray potato slices back in, and cook, undisturbed, for about 12 minutes; watch the edges of the potatoes from the side as they soften, curl, and start to release from the hot surface, becoming crisp and brown on the bottom. Lower the heat if necessary to prevent burning, and add more butter or oil to the chapa as it is absorbed by the potatoes.
When a bamboo skewer pierces the potatoes easily, they are cooked through. Season the chicken skin with salt and pepper, then carefully slide the metal disk underneath the potatoes in the same direction as the spiral, using a deliberate, circular scooping motion to keep the potatoes in line, and flip the chicken over. Cook for about 8 minutes more, blotting up excess fat with a paper towel as necessary, or adding dots of butter or oil if the griddle seems dry. When the chicken is cooked through but still juicy, slide the disk under it again and transfer it to a platter.
Meanwhile, toss the tomato, onion, and arugula together in a bowl with a light drizzle of olive oil. Arrange the salad on top of the chicken, and serve cut into wedges like a pizza.
PICTURED ON PAGES 144
Butterflied Chicken a la Parrilla with Chanterelles and Grilled Chicory
A grilled split chicken, golden brown as it comes from the parrilla, is one of my favorite dishes. Salt and pepper are all it needs. Such a simple preparation wants an equally uncomplicated but flavorful side dish. Chicory, which I learned to love when I worked in Italy as a young man, does the trick for me every time. Brushed with olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper, and grilled to crispness, it is as good as the chicken that it graces. If you are lucky enough to have acquired some chanterelles or other wild mushrooms to sauté, they make the crowning touch. Their color is like the caramelized crust of the chicken.
I butterfly my chickens differently than most butchers: I split them through the breastbone instead of the back, leaving the backbone in instead of discarding it. I think you get a juicier chicken this way, and an extra fun bone to pick. SERVES 4
1 farm-raised chicken, about 3 pounds
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil
FOR THE CHANTERELLES
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1 large garlic clove, minced
1 pound chanterelles or other mushrooms, cleaned, trimmed, and left whole if small, cut in half or into thirds if larger
¼ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 large bunch young chicory or frisée, cut in half
Extra virgin olive oil for drizzling
With kitchen shears, split the chicken through the breastbone and press it out flat. Pat it dry on both sides with paper towels. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Heat a charcoal grill or a large deep-ridged cast-iron grill pan over medium heat. Brush the grate or ridges generously with oil. When the oil starts to smoke, add the chicken bone side down and grill until it browns and crisps on the first side, about 15 minutes. Turn the chicken and grill on the other side for 10 to 15 minutes more, until it is cooked through. Transfer to a platter and let it rest.
Meanwhile, for the mushrooms, heat half the butter and half the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Add the shallots and sauté over medium heat for several minutes, stirring occasionally, until they soften. Add the garlic and sauté until the shallots are translucent, adjusting the heat as necessary so the garlic does not burn. Add the mushrooms and the remaining butter and oil and sauté for about 8 minutes, until the mushrooms have released their liquid and it has reduced with the butter into a light glaze. Stir in the parsley and keep warm.
While the chicken rests, drizzle the chicory with a little oil, place it on the hottest part of the grill, or in the blotted grill pan over high heat, and cook for a few minutes, turning once, until lightly charred. Cut the chicory into serving pieces.
Cut the chicken into serving pieces and serve with the mushrooms and chicory.
PICTURED ON PAGES 150–151
Butterflied Chicken a la Parrilla with Chanterelles and Grilled Chi
cory.
In the Snow
Snow is a language I understand. I think in Spanish. I babble in English. I munch French. I sing Portuguese. I make my way around some German poems. I speak Snow.
Whenever I see a snowstorm rumbling down from the Andes toward my home on The Island, I am transported back to childhood. I can’t sit still. I press my face up against the windowpane and watch the clouds roll in. I check the thermometer and then glance back at the mountains. I watch the birds doing whatever it is they do to make ready for snow. They seem so busy! I step outside to smell the air and then I duck back into the warmth of the cabin. I will go on like this—restless with anticipation—for hours. I think it must be unbearable to be around me at such times, I am so full of nervous energy.
But then, when the blizzard starts and I feel we are going to get at least six feet of snow (no kidding), I relax. Maybe I’ll read for a while, or bake a chocolate cake, which is one of the special things that I do only at The Island. Inevitably, my thoughts will turn to my next cookout in the snow. It is both a challenge and a pleasure.
I load up a sleigh with dry wood, pots and pans, food and wine, and a duffel bag and warm blankets for the dog and then I head for a cooking site—usually beside a stream whose water still runs silvery clear in the winter. I pick a fire site and tamp down the snow all around so that it is firm enough to walk on, then lay a piece of sheet metal—say 3 feet by 3 feet—on the snow. I will build my fire on the metal (if I didn’t do that, the fire would melt the snow underneath and the water would put the fire out before I got a chance to cook). If the snow isn’t deep, no metal needed: I just clear away the snow until I see ground.
Time to start the fire and open a bottle of wine. The meal will usually begin with a hearty soup that I make in a cast-iron cauldron, suspended from some stakes—lots of onions and garlic to ward off the cold, and some creamy sweet butternut squash to warm your insides. Meanwhile I’ll roast whatever meat I’ve brought, very slowly, perhaps impaling it on a sapling stuck into the snow. The vegetables are easy: some potatoes and fennel thrown into the ashes and embers. For dessert, burnt apples and oranges with rosemary and honey.
So simple!
Then, when we have eaten and drunk our fill, it is nice to lie back to watch the stars, to listen to the wolves, and—if you have chosen well—to cuddle with your guest.
Griddled Chicken with Charred Herb and Tomato Salad
The chicken cooks very slowly, and at first it may look as if it won’t cook through. But don’t worry: the skin becomes crisp as the fat renders, and the result is very succulent meat. I serve it with a colorful salad. The combination of basil and mint keeps things light and fresh tasting. The char on the herbs should be very subtle—you don’t want them to lose their freshness and flavorful but volatile oils. If the chicken breasts are large, cut them in half and put them on the griddle after the legs and thighs have cooked for a few minutes; the smaller pieces will crisp up and stay juicier. Don’t crowd the griddle: here as elsewhere, only real generosity of space allows food to cook, crust, and char. SERVES 4
One 3-pound chicken, cut into serving pieces (breasts, drumsticks, and thighs)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 pound assorted small heirloom tomatoes
12 large fresh basil leaves
12 large fresh mint leaves
6 fresh thyme sprigs
2 fresh rosemary sprigs
1 large garlic clove, minced
1 small red onion, sliced very thin
Pat the chicken pieces very dry with paper towels. If the breasts are large, cut them in half. Season with salt and pepper.
Heat a chapa or a large cast-iron griddle over medium heat. Brush the surface with 2 teaspoons of the olive oil. When it begins to shimmer, add the chicken pieces, skin side down. As the chicken pieces brown, turn them to cook on all sides; it will take about 30 minutes for legs and thighs, less for cut-up breasts. As the smaller pieces are done, take them off the grill while the others continue cooking.
Meanwhile, cut the tomatoes in half, or in quarters if they are on the larger side. Place the herbs in a bowl with the minced garlic, the remaining olive oil, the onion, and tomatoes. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
After the chicken has cooked for about 20 minutes, add the tomatoes and herbs to the chapa and cook the tomatoes on one side until lightly charred.
Arrange the chicken and the warm herb and tomato salad on a large platter, season the chicken with salt and a few grinds of pepper, and serve immediately.
Duck Breast with Balsamic Vinegar and Asparagus
Duck breasts, rich and fatty, are well suited to the chapa. Low, even heat and slow cooking melts the fat away, crisps the skin, and brings the meat to a perfect medium-rare. It has some of the intensity of wild game but a softer texture, like that of strip steak. Real balsamic vinegar has both the subtlety and the strength to stand up to the duck. By real balsamic vinegar, I mean the aged and concentrated vinegar made in Modena, not the sugar-sweetened vinegar you find in the supermarket, which is an abomination.
Using a skillet instead of a griddle makes it easier to spoon off the fat as the duck cooks. SERVES 4
2 magrets (Moulard duck breasts), about 1 pound each
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large Idaho (baking) potatoes, peeled and cut lengthwise into quarters
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 red onion, thinly sliced
1 pound thin asparagus, trimmed and cut in half
1½ cups aged balsamic vinegar
Pat the duck breasts dry with paper towels. Using a small sharp knife, score the fat in a crosshatch pattern, with about ⅓ inch between cuts. This will allow the fat to melt and render easily. Season with salt and pepper.
Heat a large cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Place the magrets skin side down on the hot surface and cook for about 15 minutes, carefully spooning off the fat as it melts, so the skin crisps, and reserving it in a bowl. Lower the heat if the skin appears to be browning before the fat renders—it is worth the extra few minutes for a crisp end result. When the skin is crisp and golden, turn the breasts to the other side and cook for another 5 minutes or so, until the meat is medium-rare when you cut into it with a knife. Transfer to a carving board and let rest while you prepare the vegetables and sauce.
Slice the quartered potatoes very thin on a mandoline. (Do not wipe them off—you want to retain the starch.) Brush a large cast-iron griddle with the olive oil and heat over medium heat. Dot with half the butter, and when it foams, spread the potatoes and onions out on the hot surface. Cook, without moving them, for several minutes, until the potatoes soften and stick together and the onions start to brown nicely on the bottom; add more butter as it is absorbed and drizzle with a tablespoon or so of the rendered duck fat. With a wide sharp-edged spatula, turn the vegetables over to cook on the other side. Arrange the asparagus around the vegetables, dot with the remaining butter, and drizzle with a tablespoon or so of the duck fat; turn the asparagus as it softens and browns. Remove the vegetables to a serving platter as they are done and season to taste with salt and pepper.
Meanwhile, to prepare the sauce, remove as much fat from the skillet as you can, leaving the caramelized duck juices. Turn the heat to medium-high and, averting your face, carefully pour the vinegar into the skillet, scraping up the bits on the bottom with a spatula. Continue to cook until the vinegar reduces to a rich syrup. Return the magrets to the pan and turn them in the hot syrup for a moment, then remove the skillet from the heat, transfer the magrets back to the carving board, and slice them across the grain.
Arrange the duck on the platter with the vegetables, spoon the remaining glaze over the duck, and serve immediately.
TRAVELS WITH FIRE
GARZÓN, URUGUAY
When I first came to Urugu
ay, if you headed east and north along the coast road from the tourist mecca of Punta del Este, you would have found a long row of ghost towns, or no towns at all.
To reach my little restaurant, which sat on the beach in the shadow of the lighthouse of José Ignacio, you had to take a ferry across the lagoon. It was splendidly isolated. But with the coming of the roads, development followed, and that isolation departed. In those early years, I would go to Garzón, a little town about fifteen minutes inland. It was indeed a bit of a ghost town itself, with very few people and many empty houses from the colonial era. The mayor of José Ignacio lived there, so I would often visit to take care of business matters. Or I would stop off after going into the hills to buy some stone for my endless construction projects at the restaurant.
Though Garzón was humbled by the passage of time, I thought it had very fine “bones”: a pretty little plaza, wide streets encircling it, old houses, two old churches, and beautiful palmera trees with their sprays of orange berries. And then there were the people. The more I visited, the more I admired their quiet and polite ways.
Ten years ago, I bought the old general store and began to convert it into a restaurant and hotel. People liked it so much that they began to buy neighboring properties and renovate them. The pace of life quickened just a little. “Rush hour” still means a moped, car, or horse going by every ten minutes or so. The town philosophers still gather at the beer hall a block from the town square, and at night, you can still hear the sound of the children’s swing set creaking in the wind that blows across the plaza.
Much as I love this little village, once it started to develop, I sought out the solitude that had drawn me there in the first place. I bought a property ten minutes farther on in the green hills, which, viewed from on high, seem to roll on forever in rippling undulations of deep green. People don’t think of Uruguay as having dramatic scenery, and it doesn’t have the looming mountains and ice-blue glaciers of Patagonia, but when you build a bonfire on a hilltop and roast some meat and look out at the countryside as the sun sets, you will never find a more thrilling view.
Mallmann on Fire Page 9