by Edward Lee
2Transfer the bacon mixture to a food processor and puree to a coarse paste. With the processor running, add the foie gras and pepper and process until well combined. Transfer to a bowl or other container and let cool to room temperature before transferring to the refrigerator to fully chill. (The pâté can be refrigerated, tightly covered, for at least 2 weeks.)
3To make the sandwiches: Lay out the slices of bread on a surface. Spread a little Dijon mustard on each slice and sprinkle the slices with about half of the grated cheese. Smear a thin layer of bacon pâté, about ¼ inch thick, on 6 slices of bread. Sprinkle the remaining grated cheese over the pâté. Top with the remaining slices of bread.
4Heat the corn oil in a large frying pan. Add the sandwiches two at a time and cook over medium heat, for 2 minutes on each side, until golden brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels.
To make the sandwiches easier to cut and serve, instead of cutting them right after frying them, transfer them to a platter and chill in the refrigerator for an hour. Then slice them into nice even squares, transfer to a baking sheet, and reheat in a 300°F oven for 6 minutes, or until warmed through.
The world is full of finger-pointing moralists who find foie gras to be ethically repugnant. California recently banned all foie gras products; Chicago tried to, but the city quickly came to its senses. Michael Ginor owns and oversees Hudson Valley Foie Gras in Ferndale, New York, where I buy my foie gras and duck products. I implore anyone with any misgivings about foie gras to go and visit his operation. It is a clean, resourceful, and humanely run farm that happens to sell duck livers. If you have any doubts, it will change your mind about foie gras.
Eggplant, Ricotta, Newsom’s Ham, and Fried Black-Eyed Peas with Grapefruit Vinaigrette
Salads fall into two categories: tossed and composed. I like serving this as a composed salad, which means that all the components are prepared separately and then put together on the plates at the last minute. There are many different types of eggplant out there, so be sure to experiment with some of the beautiful heirloom varieties. For an elegant salad like this, I will always go with the intensely salty Newsom’s ham (see Resources, page 279). / Feeds 4 or 5
1 large or 2 medium eggplants, sliced into ¾-inch-thick disks
About 3 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 cup ricotta
1 teaspoon grated grapefruit zest
3 ounces country ham, preferably Col. Bill Newsom’s (see Resources, page 279)
½ cup cooked black-eyed peas (see note), patted dry with paper towels
Canola oil or corn oil for deep-frying
Grapefruit Vinaigrette
Juice of ½ grapefruit (about ½ cup)
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
¼ cup olive oil
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2Arrange the eggplant disks in a single layer on a baking sheet. Brush on both sides with about 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper on both sides. Roast for 16 to 18 minutes. Flip the slices of eggplant; they should look browned on the bottom and the skin should be slightly blistered. Cook for an additional 10 minutes. Set aside.
3Meanwhile, mix the ricotta with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, the grapefruit zest, ½ teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper in a small bowl. Reserve.
4Slice the country ham; you want as many slices as you have eggplant disks. Set aside on wax paper or a cold plate until ready to use.
5To make the black-eyed peas: In a skillet, heat about 1½ cups canola oil to 375°F (the oil should be ½ inch deep). Slowly add the black-eyed peas and fry them, stirring very slowly, for 6 to 7 minutes, or until the skins are very dark and crunchy. Immediately remove with a skimmer or slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Sprinkle ½ teaspoon salt over the fried peas while they are still hot.
6To make the vinaigrette: Whisk all the ingredients together in a small bowl. (The vinaigrette can be made ahead and refrigerated in a jar until ready to use. It will separate after a few minutes, but that’s okay. Just shake it up a bit right before serving.)
7To serve, divide the eggplant evenly among four or five salad plates. Place a spoonful of ricotta on each eggplant disk. Drape a slice of country ham over the ricotta. Sprinkle the fried black-eyed peas over and around the plates. Finish by drizzling the grapefruit vinaigrette over the salads.
Black-eyed peas came to America on the slave ships from Africa. They are one of the most common forms of beans in the world. To cook them, start with about ½ pound of dried beans. Rinse them under cold water and put them in a large saucepan along with 3 cups warm water. If you like pork, add a handful of ham trimmings to the pot. Bring to a boil, then cover the pan with a lid, reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook for about 45 minutes undisturbed. Check the beans. Are they tender enough to chew but still have a little resistance to them? That’s how I like my peas, not at all mushy.
Tamarind-Strawberry-Glazed Ham
To avoid ham confusion, it’s important to note that this recipe calls for a city ham, which means a ham that has been injection-cured and usually very lightly smoked and sold partially cooked or ready to eat. Traditionally these hams are coated with a very sweet glaze—and I’m sure you’ve seen them decorated with rounds of canned pineapple slices and maraschino cherries. This tamarind glaze gets its sweetness and texture from ripe strawberries and brown sugar, but the intense tartness of the tamarind fruit cuts through the sweetness, as well as the ham’s fat, bringing another layer of flavor to the dish.
Try this recipe for your next Easter ham, and serve it with your favorite roasted vegetables and a side of Cardamom Ambrosia Salad (page 194). / Feeds 8 to 10 easily
Tamarind-Strawberry Glaze
¾ cup packed light brown sugar
½ cup fresh orange juice
¼ cup tamarind paste or concentrate (see Resources, page 279)
¼ cup honey
5 ounces fresh strawberries, washed and hulled
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 teaspoons soy sauce
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon paprika
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
1 fully cooked spiral-cut ham (about 8 pounds)
1To make the glaze: Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan and bring to a simmer over low heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Simmer for 8 to 10 minutes, until the strawberries are soft. Skim the foam off the top and discard.
2Transfer the mixture to a blender and puree on medium speed. Pass through a strainer into a bowl or other container to remove all the strawberry seeds. Cover and set aside at room temperature.
3Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and take out the other rack. Preheat the oven to 250°F.
4Unwrap the ham and place it fat side up in a large roasting pan. Add about a cup of water to the bottom of the pan. Using a sharp chef’s knife, make diagonal cuts into the fat of the ham about an inch apart and about ¼ inch deep to create a crosshatch pattern. Don’t worry if you fumble a bit; this part isn’t exact science. Wrap the entire ham in aluminum foil and place the pan on the bottom oven rack.
5Bake the ham for 10 minutes per pound (an 8-pound ham will take 1 hour and 20 minutes). Check the internal temperature of the ham with an instant-read thermometer: it should read 120°F.
6Remove the foil and use a brush to apply a thick layer of the glaze onto the entire surface of the ham. The slits that you made earlier will have started to pull apart just a little. Get your brush into all the crevices and slits so the glaze will penetrate the meat. Increase the oven temperature to 450°F, return the ham to the oven, and bake for 10 minutes, or until the glaze has become candy-like and caramelized. Don’t worry if you get a few burnt spots, those are the best bites.
<
br /> 7Let the ham rest for 10 minutes, then transfer to a large platter, carve, and serve.
When using a brush to apply the glaze, use a real painter’s brush. Seriously. Most pastry brushes are just cheap things that fall apart after a few uses. Buy yourself a good-quality painter’s brush, wash it right after every use, and it’ll last you for years.
Tamarind is the fruit of a tropical tree that grows throughout West Africa, India, and Southeast Asia. The pod-like fruit is hard to come by in its fresh form, but there are many pastes and extracts that you can find at specialty markets. I use a brand called Tamicon. It is dark and rich and tastes like the actual tamarind fruit. Most brands, unfortunately, are watered down and/or blended with artificial flavorings.
Country Ham and Oyster Stuffing
Come the holidays, this is the stuffing you want on your dinner table. Try it for your next Thanksgiving dinner, or anytime you roast a large bird. Make sure you use cornbread that is not too sweet (or make your own; see page 208), because the chestnuts are going to add sweetness to the stuffing. If you are using a salty country ham, cut back on or omit the salt altogether. It doesn’t really matter what oyster you use—pick your favorite ones. Just make sure they are fresh. / Feeds 8 as a side dish
2 pounds cornbread (see the headnote)
12 tablespoons (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, melted
5 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons unsalted butter
2 cups chopped onions
1½ cups chopped celery
2 garlic cloves, finely minced
6 ounces country ham, finely diced
2 tablespoons chopped fresh sage
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
1½ teaspoons sea salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon grated nutmeg
18 to 20 fresh oysters, shucked, their liquor reserved, and coarsely chopped
1 cup chicken stock
¾ cup whole milk
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
15 roasted chestnuts, peeled and coarsely chopped (see note)
1Preheat the oven to 400°F. Lightly butter a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.
2Cut the cornbread into ½-inch cubes. Toss the cornbread with the melted butter and spread out in a single layer on a baking sheet, crumbs and all. Bake, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes, or until the cornbread is a nice toasty color. Set aside.
3Meanwhile, melt 5 tablespoons of the butter in a large skillet. Add the onions, celery, and garlic and sauté until translucent, about 6 minutes.
4Transfer the cooked vegetables into a large bowl and toss gently with the toasted cornbread. Add the country ham, sage, thyme, salt, pepper, and nutmeg, tossing well. Add the oysters, with their liquor, and mix gently with a rubber spatula.
5Warm the chicken stock and milk in a small saucepan just until simmering. Add to the stuffing mixture. Fold in the eggs. Transfer the stuffing to the baking dish, dot with the remaining 2 teaspoons butter, and sprinkle the chopped chestnuts over the top. Cover the dish with foil.
6Turn the oven down to 350°F and bake for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for another 15 to 20 minutes, until the stuffing is browned on top but still looks moist. Serve hot.
In winter, you can find roasted and peeled chestnuts at many gourmet shops. If you have fresh chestnuts, make a slit down the middle of each one with a sharp knife, then dump into a pot of boiling water for 5 minutes. Transfer them to a baking sheet and roast in a 400°F oven for 15 minutes. Peel both the shell and inner skin. They peel easier when they are hot.
The Ham Lady
Nancy Newsom is continuing a tradition of making country ham the old way, from hand-rubbing the salt onto the hams to curing them without nitrates. Hers was the first ham that I tasted and thought, “I would never miss prosciutto if I could have this every night.” Nancy ages her hams for a minimum of 10 months, but most of the hams we get from her are 14 to 16 months old, with a 30- to 34-percent shrinkage rate, making for concentrated ham flavor. The shrinkage represents how much water has evaporated from the ham during the aging process. Her hams come from several different breeds, including Tamsworth, Red Wattle, Berkshire, and Duroc—all breeds that have a good meat-to-fat ratio.
“People may make history, but it is history that makes us who we are. With each generation that comes along, there is something lost. The ability to make country hams, and the love of nature, the morals, and the business ethics—these are things that our forefathers fell upon. They laid the foundation, and we need to take our forefathers with us and bring their ideas forward into our own lives.”
—Nancy Newsom, Col. Bill Newsom’s Kentucky Country Hams, Princeton, Kentucky
Seafood & Scrutiny
My Top Chef run ended with a can of oysters, a lot of hoopla, and temporary sadness. But like the many chefs who came before me and the many who will come after, I took the bitter pill of elimination and marched on. There’s a lot of fuss over reality cooking shows, and rightfully so. They have changed the landscape for young cooks approaching their careers. Gone are the days when chefs lived and died by their oven doors. Chefs now have to worry about their public images as much as they do about their knife skills. This new cult of celebrity naturally brings out detractors as well as cheerleaders. It creates controversy, and the Internet lights up. We consume food blogs like jelly beans. We post every morsel of our daily comestibles like prayers. And the cooking shows keep coming, brash and merciless. It’s not my intention to defend the reality of “reality” TV. People will always have an opinion about it either way, and I don’t care to change their minds.
What I do want to talk about is the idea of public scrutiny, on Top Chef, Iron Chef, or any other show that pits talent against talent. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, scrutiny means “critical observation or examination.” The word comes from the Latin verb scruta, meaning “to sort trash.” How perfect! On Top Chef, our dishes were observed, examined, and criticized, and then the trash was sorted out. We were scrutinized and eliminated. Art has become sport, and scrutiny has replaced idolatry. I know many who think this a turn for the worse. I don’t. It’s just the time that we live in.
I got my first job in a restaurant the summer I turned fifteen, busing tables at Terrace 5, a small, snooty restaurant on the fifth floor of the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue in New York City. On my first day of work, I’d forgotten to buy a bow tie, so the manager sent me to a lady friend of his at Hermès who sold me a silk bow tie for cheap and taught me how to knot it. On my second day on the job, I made an espresso for Kim Basinger, and I thought I had the coolest job in the city. I saw a lot of celebrities that summer. Every day before lunch service, we were given a speech about how to serve them without intrusion, how to address them without making eye contact. I hung out with waiters who were cool as shit and sometimes let me smoke a cigarette with them. After the dinner rush, I would sneak back to the kitchen and see what was left over to eat.
I don’t remember the name of the chef there. What I do remember was that it wasn’t important. There was a time in the history of American dining when the chef was not the most important cog in the machine. There was a time when chefs did not get their photos taken or walk around the dining room shaking people’s hands. There was a time when a chef was hired simply to cook, to remain anonymous. I didn’t know much about food back then, but I loved watching the chef of Terrace 5 go about his day. He was quiet and humble, always working, sweating over a steam table. I remember him wiping the rim of every plate that left the kitchen and asking what people were saying in the dining room. He always seemed a little beaten down. A little tragic. No one ever asked to shake his hand. No one ever wanted his autograph. At the end of each night, he would wring the sweat from the towel wrapped around his neck into a mop sink. His sumptuous plates of food were as anonymous as they were beautiful. In those day
s, André Soltner’s name was in the paper a lot; so was Wolfgang Puck’s. But the cult of food had not yet been born. There was no Food Network, only The Frugal Gourmet. And New York City’s kitchens were filled with an army of anonymous chefs creating masterpieces.
This was around the time I started to really learn about food and restaurants. It was also, coincidentally, about the same time the city cracked down on graffiti. Subway cars were fitted with graffiti-resistant stainless-steel finishes. Increased security in the train yards prevented the artists from doing their elaborate murals. Kids either went to jail or grew up, and I lost interest. So many masterpieces on the subway cars had vanished into memories, but I didn’t mourn their loss. I was drawn to this new, even more transitory art form percolating beneath the surface of fine French cuisine. It was more intricate and dangerous than the graffiti I had been enamored of for so long.
Back then, I could never have imagined a world where chefs would become rock stars. All the chefs I worked for in my early days were chained to their kitchens, emblazoned with the scars of battle: fading slash marks from knife cuts, discolored blotches on their arms from old burns, and always a fresh bandage somewhere on their limbs. They were more artisans than artists. I could never have imagined a time when people would recognize me at airports or walking down the street. Truth be told, it is an uneasy experience, especially when you’ve been anonymous for most of your life.
All in all, I enjoyed the scrutiny I endured on Top Chef. How many of us, in our own endeavors, get to be analyzed so closely by the very best of our peers? To have your work picked apart layer by layer is mortifying and liberating at the same time. I could second-guess every criticism that was handed down to me, but after the dust settled, I realized that it was the most honest, objective scrutiny of my cooking that I’ve ever received. It was a privilege, really. And it is small potatoes compared to the scrutiny that is thrust upon you by the public at large. Here now, but gone tomorrow. It pushed us at a pace faster than most of us could follow: the adulation and the humiliation, the pursuit of eternity, and the fading memory of a single can of oysters. There is, at least, consolation in that.