by Cathy Erway
According to Marisa, most contestants at the bake-off at the Brooklyn Kitchen flavored their breads heavily; I’ll admit to enjoying one made with potato water and cracked black pepper and another made with semolina, golden raisins, and fennel seeds, an apparent homage to Amy’s Breads best-known loaf, though it had an excessively flat shape.
I put down the magazine and pumped my fist in the air. Someone in a car driving by right then whooped in response. I was seated on the front stoop of my apartment building, having not yet made it inside. I read the sentence again: I’ll admit to enjoying one...
Gosh, he sounded reluctant. But at least he enjoyed mine! I skimmed the rest of the article and came across another slight jab: “Judging from half the entries at the Brooklyn Kitchen bake-off—which were flatter than they should have been—it seemed obvious that some home bakers need more instruction in how to form a loaf.”
He was right; most of the loaves were pretty flat at the bake-off. Except for mine! I scuttled my feet on the concrete stair below me.
So, bread: check. I’d baked a loaf that had not only won a kitchen store’s contest but had earned the favor of the most respected food critic alive. No more soliciting recipes from friends, readers, friends’ moms, cousins, and brothers, I decided right then. If I could bake bread from scratch, kneading or not, I now had the confidence to cook any food in the known world, and even some that weren’t yet.
Peppercorn, Potato, and Parmesan No-Knead Bread
This is a slightly updated version of my winning peppercorn no-knead bread, with a small addition. Who can resist a sprinkle of Parmigiano-Reggiano on top of anything? You won’t see an ungolden crust with this trick.
(MAKES 1 ½-POUND LOAF)
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
¼ teaspoon active dry yeast
1½ teaspoons salt
About 3 tablespoons black peppercorns, cracked (I placed mine inside a Ziploc bag and rolled over it with a rolling pin several times)
1⅝ cups water that was used to boil a potato, slightly cooled
Parmesan
In a large bowl, combine flour, yeast, salt, and pepper. Add water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18 (or two days), at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.
Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it with a little more flour and fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest about 15 minutes.
Using just enough flour to keep dough from sticking to work surface or your fingers, gently and quickly shape dough into a ball, tucking folded parts underneath. Sprinkle and gently pat the grated Parmesan across the top of the loaf. Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour, semolina, or cornmeal, and place loaf seam-side down on it. Coat another cotton towel with flour and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.
At least a half hour before dough is ready, preheat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6-8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex, or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under the towel and place dough Parmesan side up in the pot. Cover with lid and bake 20 minutes; then remove lid and bake another 15 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.
Sun-Dried Tomato and Zucchini Breadsticks
These breadsticks make a tasty appetizer at dinner parties and are great for bringing to work for snacks. I like using some of the oil that the jarred sun-dried tomatoes are packed with to brush on top of the breadsticks before baking; also, chopped olives would make a nice addition or alternative to the sun-dried tomatoes.
(MAKES ABOUT 9 8-INCH BREADSTICKS)
3½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 package active dry yeast
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon rosemary
3¾ cups water
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil (or a combination with some of the oil from the jar of sun-dried tomatoes)
1 medium-large (or 2 small) zucchinis, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced
¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes, finely chopped
Sprinkle of sea salt (optional)
In a large bowl, combine flour, yeast, salt, and rosemary. Add water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.
Heat a saute pan with about 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium heat. Add zucchini and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and toss and stir until just wilted, about 2-3 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool. Combine with the chopped sun-dried tomatoes in a bowl.
Knead the dough a few times on a lightly floured surface, then divide into roughly nine even pieces. Roll each one out into a thin log about 10 inches long and 2 inches wide. Distribute the zucchini and sun-dried tomato evenly along the length of each breadstick and fold in half lengthwise to close (dough does not have to be fully sealed around the fillings). Carefully twist the breadstick lengthwise a few times. Place them three inches apart on floured cutting boards or cotton towels. Cover with floured cotton towels and let rise for about 2 hours, in a relatively warm place.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Lightly oil the bottom of cookie sheets and transfer breadsticks to sheets, placed about 2 inches apart. Brush tops of breadsticks with remaining olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt if desired. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until golden.
CHAPTER 3
Mise en Place
Excellent mise represents the ultimate state of preparedness, whether the physical mise en place of food and tools or the mental mise en place of having thought a task through to the end and being ready for each step of it.
—Michael Ruhlman, The Elements of Cooking
Despite all this talk about baking, I’ve failed to describe the physical surroundings where my not-eating-out mission took place. The kitchen in the small two-bedroom I shared with Erin was more of a hallway between the living room and the bathroom. On one side were a refrigerator and a stove, pushed precariously close to each other. The other side held a sink and a small counter space that fit one person standing before it; it was usually one of us cooking and one of us talking just outside, maybe, but never could we both be actively using the kitchen at the same time. For lack of many drawers or space to put cooking tools, we’d hung a ruffled, red-and-white-striped apron against the wall just below the cabinets. Its front pocket was where we tucked all our wooden spoons, ladles, whisks, and spatulas. The weight from the utensils drew the pocket outward, so that the handles protruded into the counter space, ready to poke me with any move too flagrant.
The air was getting cool by the end of September, reminding me of how soothing it felt to cook when it was cold outside. Prompted by countless nights of staying in and cooking with Erin, I was becoming quite confident in my kitchen skills. I decided it was a good time to bring others into the fold by having guests over—if only because of the fact that there were so many different dishes I wanted to make and not enough mouths to feed them to.
One Friday night when Erin was out at band practice, I invited my friends Richard and Sam over for dinner, along with Ben. Richard and Sam had gone to art school with Ben, and the three of them were longtime friends. Richard was a Web designer, to Ben’s print graphic design. His girlfriend, Sam, who often wore her long, curly black hair in braids, was a jewelry designer and freelance painter and sculptor. The couple’s true calling, however, might have been hosting barbecues. Over the summer, they’d held more backyard feasts than I could remember, or at least remember in full. Their barbecues generally consisted of the basics: hamburgers, hot dogs, a pit bull trying to steal bites of your hot dog, kabobs, grilled corn on the cob, a table crowded with c
ondiments baking to warm sludge in the hot late-afternoon sun. And plenty of beer. These were the makings of a classic Richard-and-Sam barbecue.
But that fall, I wanted to treat these friends of mine to something altogether new: a quaint four-person dinner at my apartment.
The main course, I’d decided, would be the Taiwanese dish san bei gi, paired with some simple sauteed green beans. Translated as “three cup chicken,” the dish is a savory braise of chicken with one cup of rice wine, one cup of sesame oil, and one cup of soy sauce, hence the name “three cup.” The intense flavor of the dish really came from the smothering portion of fresh Thai basil leaves, whole garlic cloves, and thick strips of ginger that were cooked into the sauce. It seemed like a nice, yet easy dish to kick off the fall with, and since it was so similar to a lot of the stir-fries I learned how to cook from my mother, I figured it would be pretty intuitive to prepare. I secretly hoped my friends wouldn’t know this, though, and would be as blown away as I’d been when I experienced the real stuff in Taiwan.
Ben came early with the beer and wine. He began to clear the living room table of the stacks of CDs and mail, something I had neglected to notice in the midst of getting the food prepared.
“Thanks!” I yelled to Ben. Next I put him to work at finding enough chairs from around the apartment to make sure everyone would have a seat. I stared at the stack of stuff I’d piled on the kitchen counter. This was a quick dish to prepare, so I didn’t want to start it too early. But I supposed I could get some of the ingredients lined up, ready to toss into the pan. I began slicing the ginger into hearty slabs. The chicken was already portioned out in pieces, a whole cut-up fryer. The authentic version of san bei gi was made with small, roughly thumb-sized chunks of chicken legs, which were hacked straight through the bone by a skilled chef or butcher. Once they were cooked, the tender meat surrounding the bone easily fell away with a poke from one’s chopsticks or a bite.
I looked at the chicken-leg pieces and looked at my dull, five-year-old knife. It didn’t have to be served that way, I decided.
My doorbell rang at eight o’clock on the dot. At the moment, I had raw chicken tenaciously clasped with tongs in one hand and in the other a bottle of beer that I was trying to set down. The sesame oil was splattering away in a large pan on the stove.
“Ben!” I squealed. “You get the door!”
He went downstairs to let them in. A minute later, Richard and Sam were standing in my tight living room, with orangish painted walls and a large square coffee table that took up almost all of its traffic space.
“Should I take my shoes off?” Richard asked.
Just behind him, I noticed the cat rearing its body into a tight, spiky ball.
“Mreeeowww!”
The cat lunged at Richard’s ankles, clawing at his laces in three lightning-fast jabs, then quickly scampered into the hallway, stopped, and stared back, as if admiring his work.
I’d been roommates with Erin in many different housing situations, at separate times, beginning with our sophomore year of college. But before we shared this apartment, I’d never lived with her cat, Dracula. She had adopted him as a kitten just a year before, and in the first few days he’d been with her, he’d shown the combative streak that inspired his name. Of course he had been only a cute, cuddly kitten then. Now he was a full-sized, slithering, tiger-coated devil.
“Is there something wrong with your cat?” Sam asked.
I looked at Dracula. His marbled brown-and-black coat shone under the harsh overhead light in the narrow hallway. He had inquisitive eyes, and they were now looking into mine as if to ask whose side I was on—his or theirs. He lowered his hind legs into a clenched position once again and looked ready to spring at any moment.
“Uh, just ignore Dracula,” I said. “He’s better with new people if you just ignore him.”
“His name is Dracula?” Sam asked.
“I was ignoring him. I didn’t even know he was there,” Richard said.
I muttered an apology, and then remembered the stove. Back in the kitchen, the pan with the chicken quarters I’d dropped in moments earlier was popping with sesame oil going off like fire-crackers. I felt a hot, stinging fleck on my wrist as I reached for the tongs.
While Ben got drinks for Richard and Sam and comforted them with stories of how Dracula had also tried to kill him, I went back to work in the kitchen.
San bei gi is a decidedly simple dish, reflected in the way its name sounds almost like a bare-bones recipe itself. One cup of this, one cup of that ... Like most Chinese stir-fries, it takes a short time to make, although longer in my case since I didn’t hack the chicken to small pieces. But with the three even portions of liquids, it comes out looking more like a stew than a stir-fry, and the deep hue of the soy sauce stains everything reddish brown. Once the dish was cooked, it was almost impossible to tell a whole, softened garlic clove from a chunk of chicken that had fallen off the bone.
My first encounter with the dish was at a hole-in-the-wall Taiwanese restaurant in Boston, at the beginning of college. Little did I know at that time that I’d go on to spend several months in Taiwan a couple of years later, for my last semester. I had already taken one semester abroad, in the Netherlands, and from there I traveled throughout Europe. During my time in Taiwan, I traveled to China for a while, too, but mostly took the opportunity to explore the country where my mother grew up. The university I attended was in Taipei, the island’s capital, and it was my mother’s native city I’d been there once before, to visit relatives when I was six. I can’t remember much of that trip, but by the end of my semester in Taipei, I felt much more connected with the culture—especially the food—of my mother’s side of the family
There are many signatures of Taiwanese cuisine, but san bei gi just might be the most famous. I didn’t know quite how to describe to Ben what I was making that night, except that it was “really good.” (He seemed satisfied with that.) Unlike some of my favorite Taiwanese foods, it wasn’t spicy, either, and since I wasn’t sure how Sam and Richard felt about spiciness, I figured it was a safe bet. Richard had a passion for grilling the perfect burger; Sam was gifted at making delicious salsas (which she claimed had no secret to them); my forte would be this complex balance of assertive Eastern flavors.
Glancing at the clock, I hoped that this might make up for a bit of wait time. I realized then I hadn’t thought to prepare any appetizers.
I lowered the heat on the stove. The chicken pieces had seared and were now impenetrably bound to the bottom of the pan. Pushing them around would only mean ripping the half-cooked flesh from the bones. So I decided to add the garlic, the ginger, and the liquids, and let those kick around for a while, loosening the pan’s grip on the chicken. Over the pan I upended a bowl of thick, unpeeled ginger slices and whole garlic cloves that I’d prepared. Guesstimating, I poured in what seemed like equal portions of soy sauce and rice wine.
The oil sputtered, protesting. Then, the pungent, slightly spicy smell of the aromatics softly dissolving in hot oil began to waft throughout the kitchen. I stirred as I waited for the liquid to reach a boil.
I reached into the freezer for one of the beer bottles I’d put on quick-cool. I needed some cooling down myself. Using the hem of my sweater, I twisted off the cap. It clattered onto the floor, and when I reached down to grab it, I noticed Dracula a few feet away, lifting his tail in alert.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have put on a pair of tall boots. These at least protected my lower shins from his claws. I had grown so accustomed to cooking while wearing my tall cowboy boots that Erin had even picked out a floor mat for the kitchen emblazoned with an image of a sultry cartoon cowgirl tipping her hat. Even so, Dracula’s claws had a way of striking straight through whatever cloth I happened to be wearing on my upper shins, above the boots—corduroys, jeans, or the short-lived pair of tights. On most nights I was at home, Dracula would prick several little thumbtack-sized holes into my legs before the night was over.
“Go!” I whispered, bulging my eyes at his serpentine irises. As if conceding, Dracula sauntered into the living room.
I poked my head into the room. Richard and Sam were sitting on the threadbare love seat, swathed in dim orange light. Ben was seated in a wicker armchair, and the three were engaged in a conversation I couldn’t quite make out above the splattering oil. But I didn’t see Dracula anywhere.
“Can I help with anything?” Sam asked me.
“Nope, everything’s under control.” I smiled. I lowered the stove’s heat to a simmer and partially covered the pan to cook off some of the liquid.