Smoke and Pickles

by Edward Lee

  About a year ago, I was driving home from a charity event where I’d cooked for four hundred people. There was wine and foie gras and profiteroles and a tequila sponsor and pretty people in shimmering attire, and we were all feeling so darn good about ourselves. Halfway into the drive, though, I realized that I had no fucking clue what charity I had just raised money for. This was no one’s fault but mine. I’m sure it was printed on every twenty-foot banner that floated from the ceiling right next to the tequila and wine logos. I was confident that some unfortunate kid in some hospital got to have that surgery he really needed. And it made me feel both selfish and shallow for thinking that I was anything more than hired help in the organization’s fund-raising efforts.

  But that was not the concept of charity I grew up with. When my family moved into a new apartment building full of other immigrant families, there was an unspoken rule that the more established families would come by on random nights with dinner in Tupperware containers, packed into a reused A&P shopping bag. My grandmother, always smiling at the door, would take these bags right to the kitchen sink and sniff them with disbelief. Why would anyone give us a free meal if not to poison us? When the North Koreans pushed south to invade the city she lived in, she’d had to flee her home with nothing more than her son (my dad) in one arm and a basket of clothes in the other. She’d had to camp out with thousands of strangers in overcrowded boats and trains, in unthinkable places, and she’d had to fight for every morsel of food, oftentimes against men twice her size. That defining experience turned her into a strong, cunning, and strategic woman, but it also made her cripplingly cynical. Who was this Jamaican family, really? And what was this stinky food they wanted us to eat? Once she determined that it was not poisonous, I was allowed to have a plate. She’d never touch it herself, simply watched as I downed bowls of okra and yellow rice. The Korean families would bring tofu soup and rice congee. The Indian family, curry with eggplant and chickpeas. It was mostly vegetables, cheap older vegetables bought at a discount. But the charitable gesture made their food taste good, comforting even.

  Which brings me back to Johnny. What is so remarkable about that album is not just his singing but how the inmates reacted to his performance. Sure, it was a publicity stunt, and, yes, the final tapes were edited to make the cheers louder, but that doesn’t take away from his contribution of time, playing a concert for a roomful of marginalized criminals. His time was a valuable commodity, but the inmates, well, all they had was time on their hands. The convergence of the two was a precious rare moment.

  I decided soon after that charity dinner that I wanted to be more like Johnny. I would cook dinner in a prison for the hardened inmates. I called a criminal-lawyer friend and set up a site visit at a Kentucky maximum-security prison. Now, I am no coward, and I’ve tussled my way through enough fights in my days, but I was not prepared for a prison tour. I never got within twenty yards of an inmate, but even from a distance, they looked like they would eat me alive if given the chance. The smell was the most frightening part of the tour. It wasn’t the smell of dank violence; it was the noxious smell of ammonia everywhere. As if the constant mopping and cleaning hid something more unspeakable. We got to the bottom of a stairwell and I noticed blood splatters on an otherwise spotless floor. The guard’s reaction was somber. “It happens sometimes,” he said, with little emotion, and radioed in for a cleanup. My lawyer friend suggested that I might try a different route: there’s a correctional facility for kids nearby, and he thought they’d appreciate my help.

  I ended up cooking dinner at the Louisville Metro Youth Detention Center, which is a place for teen offenders who are too young for penitentiaries. I made BBQ with an array of sides and peach cobbler, and the kids got fruit punch to drink. I scooped their dinner onto Styrofoam plates and talked to them as they walked through the buffet line. All of these kids had made bad choices, some more so than others, but what surprised me was that, in their eyes, they were still kids. Most were shy; they giggled at anything, like all teens do. They were inquisitive and curious and hungry. They were kids. The warden asked me to say something to them. I didn’t give a lecture or tell my life story. All I said was that I believed in my heart that everyone deserves a good meal and that included them. They gave me hugs and asked if I’d come back. They wrote me letters. As I said, I consider myself a pretty tough guy, and I thought I was ready for anything, but I never thought I’d have to swallow my tears as these kids smiled and waved good-bye to me in their brown jumpsuits and slippers.

  Since then, I have quietly devoted time to dinners for small groups of families. I show them the farm and a few cooking tips, and I get to spend an afternoon squeezing limes and rolling dough with the kids. The kids learn fast; they absorb know­ledge without prejudice or fear. I invite the families to have lunch at my restaurant, and we pour apple juice into wineglasses for the kids and use proper forks and crumb the table before dessert. I get thank-you letters from the families, and I keep each one. I don’t call the media, I don’t ask for sponsors; I just find a place and a time and a group of twenty or thirty people who are in need of something, and I cook them a good meal. I’m always inspired by the way the kids’ faces light up when they taste a new sauce or learn how to chop an onion. Instead of writing a check, I try to give them a safe place for a few hours where they can let their imaginations wander and grow. And I try to teach them the importance of good food and all that that entails.

  Sometimes when I want a quiet day where my cell phone is out of range, I’ll head over to Jackson Farms, in Memphis, Indiana, where I get a lot of my produce. They have more than 150 acres and grow everything from corn to peaches to beets to hothouse tomatoes. They are always shorthanded, so they tolerate me on their farm, even though I’m not much help. I usually tinker with things. The farmers are always nice about it, always ready to listen to some new idea I have or to grow some new seed I’ve found in a catalogue. My favorite place to hang out, though, is the nurseries, where the young seedlings start to bud. It’s amazing to see them at this early stage, when they are nothing more than sprouts, barely distinguishable from each other. Some will become melons and others tomatoes and others peppers, but here in this controlled environment, they are just pushing up through the soil, trembling to survive. Most of these seedlings and sprouts would not make it in the field. They’d be trampled on, flooded out by rain, or eaten by birds. They need the safety of the nursery to get strong before being transferred to the outside elements. Sort of reminds me of the kids I work with. And why should they have any less?

  Yellow Squash Soup with Cured Strawberries

  A refreshing soup can taste like summer in a bowl. This is a delicious start to a light meal or a smart accompaniment to a toasted sandwich. Make this when yellow squash is in season—it’s at its best in summer. It’s the same with the strawberries. The curing process here both intensifies the flavor of the strawberries and cuts the tartness. It gives the berries an almost meaty texture. Pair this with a classic French Sancerre. / Feeds 8

  Soup

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  ½ cup chopped onion

  2 pounds yellow squash, coarsely chopped

  1½ teaspoons fresh thyme leaves

  2 cups vegetable stock

  ½ cup sour cream

  2 teaspoons salt

  Freshly cracked black pepper

  Strawberries

  1 pound fresh strawberries, washed and hulled

  ½ teaspoon kosher salt

  ½ teaspoon sugar

  1To make the soup: Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until translucent, about 2 minutes. Add the yellow squash and thyme and sauté for 3 minutes. Add the vegetable stock and bring to a boil. Simmer for 10 minutes, or until the squash is soft all the way through. Take off the heat and let cool for a few minutes.

  2Transfer the soup to a blender, add the sour cream and salt, and puree
on high until very smooth, about 2 minutes. Check the consistency: If the soup is a little gritty, strain it through a fine-mesh sieve. Chill in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours, or as long as overnight.

  3About 1 hour before serving, make the strawberries: Slice the strawberries into ¼-inch-thick slices and place them in a glass bowl. Sprinkle the salt and sugar over the strawberries and gently toss them with your fingers—making sure not to crush them. Let them cure for an hour at room temperature; no longer, or they will get too soft.

  4To serve, ladle the chilled soup into bowls. Top each one with a few cured strawberries. Crack some fresh black pepper over the top and serve immediately.

  Try the cured strawberries on your next cheese plate, or as an accompaniment to a cured meat platter. Cure only what you need at the time, since they do not hold for very long.

  Southern Fried Rice

  I had to put this recipe in the book. I originally thought, well, it’s too cliché. It certainly isn’t the kind of recipe that comes to me in a moment of deep introspection. It’s the kind that slaps you in the face and says, “C’mon, get off your high horse and give ’em what they want.” To make fried rice the right way, be sure to get your skillet or wok screaming hot and work furiously through the recipe. Practice it a few times before trying it in front of an audience. You’ll look like a pro. / Feeds 6 as a side dish

  2 tablespoons Asian sesame oil

  ½ cup finely chopped onion

  1 jalapeño pepper, finely chopped

  2 garlic cloves, minced

  ¾ cup black-eyed peas, cooked, cooled, and drained (see note, page 125)

  ¾ cup corn kernels

  ¼ cup finely diced green bell pepper

  ¼ cup finely diced seeded tomatoes, drained

  2 tablespoons peanut oil

  2 large eggs

  ¼ cup ham broth (see note)

  Freshly ground white pepper

  2 cups cold leftover long-grain white rice (see note)

  2 tablespoons soy sauce, plus more to taste

  2 teaspoons oyster sauce

  2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

  Salt

  Chopped scallions for garnish

  1Heat the sesame oil in a large skillet until smoking hot, then reduce the heat to medium. Add the onions, jalapeño pepper, and garlic and stir-fry until the onions turn golden brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the black-eyed peas and corn and stir-fry for another 2 minutes. Add the green pepper and tomatoes and stir-fry for another 2 minutes.

  2Transfer the contents of the skillet to a bowl and clean out the skillet with paper towels. Heat 1 tablespoon of the peanut oil in the pan over high heat. Lightly beat the eggs with the ham broth and white pepper, then scramble the eggs in the pan. As soon as they come together in clumps, remove from the heat and add to the bowl with the cooked vegetables.

  3Clean out the pan again and heat the remaining 1 tablespoon peanut oil. When it is hot, add the cold rice and fry, stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon to separate the rice kernels, for 2 minutes. Add the soy sauce, oyster sauce, and Worcestershire sauce and cook for 1 minute, stirring the rice constantly but not smashing it. It is key to keep vigorously stirring the pan as you heat up the ingredients.

  4Stir the vegetables and egg into the rice and adjust the seasoning with a little salt, white pepper, and soy. Once the fried rice is hot throughout, transfer to warm bowls and serve, garnished with chopped scallions.

  To make ham broth, combine about 6 ounces of ham trimmings and 2 cups water in a pot, bring to a boil, and boil for 1 hour. Strain the broth; discard the ham pieces. Store the broth in a jar in your fridge until ready to use; it will last for a week in the refrigerator, or for months in your freezer.

  Use only cold leftover rice. This recipe won’t work as well with freshly cooked rice—it will get too mushy.

  Braised Bacon Rice

  I love braising bacon. It takes on a whole new identity and lends a smoky, rich texture to anything you add it to. This is good as a side dish with roast chicken or pork chops, but it’s so flavorful and satisfying I eat it for dinner with a fried egg on top. / Feeds 6 to 8 as a side dish

  8 ounces slab bacon, cut into ¼-inch dice (see note)

  1½ cups chopped onions

  1 cup chopped celery, plus 2 tablespoons chopped celery leaves

  2 garlic cloves, minced

  ½ teaspoon dry mustard

  ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

  ¼ teaspoon smoked paprika

  4 cups chicken stock

  ½ cup tomato juice

  1 cup Carolina or other long-grain rice

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  1Cook the bacon in a large pot over low heat until it has rendered most of its fat, about 5 minutes. Add the onions, chopped celery, and the garlic and cook for about 6 minutes, stirring constantly to avoid burning the bottom of the pan.

  2Add the mustard, cayenne, and paprika and stir, then add the chicken stock and tomato juice and bring to a boil. Add the rice, stir, and lower the heat to a slow simmer. Let the rice cook, uncovered, for about 16 minutes, or until most of the liquid has been absorbed.

  3Add the chopped celery leaves, butter, and salt and pepper to taste to the rice. Turn off the heat and let the rice stand for a few minutes, stirring occasionally. Serve hot.

  There are many great bacons in the world today, but Benton’s in Tennessee is the mack daddy of them all. It’s extra salty and extra smoky, and well worth making the effort to seek it out (see Resources, page 279).

  Cardamom Ambrosia Salad with Blue Cheese Dressing

  Most people think of ambrosia salad as a cloud of chunky white fruit in a glass bowl with neatly arranged canned mandarins on top. But we’ve evolved from those dark ages, and it’s high time this salad got a makeover. Ambrosia can be reeeaally delicious, if made with the best, freshest ingredients. If you are even thinking about using dried coconut flakes from a bag, don’t bother with this. Sweet fresh coconut meat is what makes it a standout.

  I don’t usually go for aperitifs, but a chilled glass of Lillet is perfect with this salad. / Feeds 6 to 8 as a side dish

  Dressing

  2½ ounces blue cheese

  3 tablespoons buttermilk

  3 tablespoons sour cream

  2 teaspoons white wine vinegar

  ¼ teaspoon sugar

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

  Salad

  2 oranges, cut into suprêmes (see note)

  1 grapefruit, cut into suprêmes (see note)

  2 Champagne mangoes, peeled, pitted, and thinly sliced

  2 Anjou pears, cored and thinly sliced

  ½ cup shredded fresh coconut (see note)

  3 ounces pitted dates, coarsely chopped, plus more for garnish

  ¼ cup slivered almonds

  ¾ teaspoon ground cardamom

  2 teaspoons coconut water (from the fresh coconut)

  Chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley for garnish (optional)

  1To make the dressing: Mash the cheese in a small bowl with a fork. Add the remaining ingredients and whisk until combined but still a bit lumpy.

  2To make the salad: Combine the orange, grapefruit, mango, and pear slices in a medium bowl. Add the shredded coconut, dates, and almonds, then sprinkle with the cardamom, add the coconut water, and thoroughly toss the salad. Add the dressing and toss together.

  3Divide the salad among individual bowls or serve it in a large bowl for a family-style dinner. Garnish with more chopped dates and some parsley, if desired.

  To make citrus suprêmes, using a sharp knife, cut off the top and bottom of the fruit. Cut away the rind and white pith in wide strips from top to bottom, following the shape of the fruit. Working over a bowl, us
e a paring knife to cut between the membranes to release the wedges of skinless fruit.

  To prepare fresh coconut, start with a 2-pound coconut. Holding it firmly in one hand over a large bowl, use the back of a butcher knife to rap the coconut following the grain. When the shell cracks, catch the coconut water in the bowl. Drain the juice and reserve. Using a spoon, scrape out the coconut flesh. Grate on the large holes of a box grater. Freeze what you don’t need in a resealable plastic bag; it will keep for weeks in the freezer.

  Okra Tempura with Rémoulade

  Surrounded by a feathery light, crispy batter, okra is just soft enough to give way but still retain its crunch. This is a great side dish, appetizer, or party snack, or just an indulgent bite on a lazy afternoon. Serve it on butcher or craft paper, or on a linen napkin for a more elegant look. The rémoulade makes this a culinary treat, but in all honesty it’s just as good with a dollop of Duke’s mayo and some Texas Pete hot sauce. Try serving this on its own with some Rogue Morimoto Soba Ale. / Feeds 4 to 6 as a side dish

  Batter

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ⅔ cup cornstarch

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 large egg yolks

  2 cups club soda or seltzer

  About 4 cups corn oil for deep-frying

  1 pound okra, trimmed and halved lengthwise

  Salt

  Perfect Rémoulade (page 6) for dipping

  1To make the batter: Sift together the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt into a medium bowl. Whisk in the egg yolks. Slowly add the club soda, whisking vigorously; the batter should have the consistency of pancake batter. Set aside.