1 large garlic clove, finely minced
¼ teaspoon ground hot red pepper
½ teaspoon dried oregano
cup zinfandel or other dry but fruity red wine
2 pounds fresh tomatoes, peeled, cored, and roughly chopped or 1 28-ounce container of peeled Italian tomatoes (Pomì by preference)
1 teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper to taste
¾ to 1 pound fresh firm-fleshed, white-meated fish, such as cod, haddock, or pollock (see note)
1 small loaf good sourdough or Italian country bread
Put the olive oil into a heavy-bottomed cooking pot and set over medium-low heat. Add the chopped onion and bell pepper. Sauté gently, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes, adding the minced garlic, ground hot red pepper, and dried oregano during the last 3 minutes of cooking.
Pour in the wine and increase the heat to medium-high. Cook until the wine is reduced by one-third. Stir in the tomatoes and add the salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. When this begins to simmer, lower the heat to keep it there, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes.
Add the fish to the sauce. Bring everything back to a simmer and cook until the fish is no longer translucent and begins to fall apart, about 5 minutes or so if the pieces are thin, or up to 10 minutes or so if they are thick. Immediately remove the pot from the heat and, with a spatula or cooking fork, gently separate the fish into flakes, keeping these as whole as possible. Ladle the cioppino into 2 large soup bowls and dribble a little olive oil over its surface. Serve with the wine and the loaf of bread, which should be pulled into pieces to dunk into the broth.
Cook’s Note.Here are Spencer and Cobb’s comments regarding the fish to be used for this recipe:
When purchasing fish for this dish, it is well always to bear in mind that a dry-meated one is best for this purpose, as it may be stewed without falling to pieces. Also that it should be of the larger fish, free from bones and skinned. On the Atlantic Coast, such fish as cod, haddock, pollack, grouper, or red snapper are suitable; the wings of the skate when obtainable are highly recommended, as they are greatly esteemed by the Italian fisherman for this dish. On the Pacific Coast, shark, ling cod, red, black, or brown rockfish, halibut, etc., can be used. Inland, the buffalo fish, also the frozen grouper, will answer the purpose.
CIOPPINO
Johan Mathiesen
Chuck and Mary lived in a cedar-shaked shack off the road out to Bastendorf Beach. Cloistered by the impenetrable rain forest, ready at any moment to be swallowed up by the salal, Oregon grape, and salmon-berries, their one-bedroomed fisherman’s shanty stood as scant protection against the gales screaming off the Pacific; the wind outside would rustle the curtains inside and drive the rain under the still. In the dark, though, in the storm, the least of shelters can seem the securest of harbors. It was there in that rude abode with the smells of sweat, wet wool, burning wood, and the sea mingling with those of tomato, oregano, and red wine that I first learned of cioppino.
Chuck had brought cioppino with him from the fishing ports of California, San Diego, and Half Moon Bay, where he’d mingled with the “Portegees.” It was the Portuguese and the Italians who had re-created their Mediterranean seafood soup with what they’d found in the Golden State: crabs, clams, cod, and shrimp from the endless coast and cranky red wines from the inland valleys, coupled with intense tomatoes and garlic grown under the relentless sun. Somewhere in the process the soup took on the name of cioppino. It was all familiar fare for Latins who had grown up under very similar conditions back home. It’s not the dish that’s so surprising, it’s the name.
Chuck was the perfect ambassador. Cioppino engenders arguments the way bouillabaisse does—not only as to what goes in it but, more importantly, where it comes from. The name is obviously Italian, and John Mariani (we can expect a guy with a handle like that to be impartial, no?) in hisDictionary of American Food and Drink claims that the word comes “from a Genoese dialect,cioppin, for a fish stew … the dish seems to have originated with the Italian immigrants of San Francisco.”
But Helen Evans Brown in her definitiveWest Coast Cook Book is less than sanguine over that opinion. In her estimation, “this is one of California’s most famous dishes, and one that we can claim is ours, all ours…. One story says that San Francisco’s fishermen didnot introduce cioppino to California, but that an Italian named Bazzuro, who ran a restaurant on a boat anchored off Fisherman’s Wharf, is responsible. What’s more, it was supposed to have been an old recipe, well known in Italy. This back in the 1850s. I refuse to believe it!”
Neither Mariani nor Brown understood what Chuck understood. Chuck didn’t even know there was an argument about cioppino; as far as he knew, cioppino was simply a fish stew he’d learned to make from other fishermen, Portuguese for the most part. Hell, Chuck himself was neither Italian nor Portuguese; he was a Hell’s Angel.
For a while I spent a lot of time with Chuck. His was the push that got us rolling downhill to Charleston in the first place, and for a couple years there he was part of our “karass.” We spent a lot of time doing things I shouldn’t mention and were both a little amazed at each other. I was the anarchist radical and he was the biker fisherman. That our lives crossed was a matter of chance, but it was largely because of Chuck that I was allowed into the rough, tough bar-fighting world of renegade, testosterone-fueled pitbulls—men for whom beer-driven brawls were a contact sport like football. If you didn’t want to play, they certainly wouldn’t pass the ball to you.
It was Chuck who introduced me to this signature dish of which I knew nothing. It was he who taught me this dish for which there was no recipe, only a concept. It was he who taught me that cioppino was not something holy and sacrosanct but rather the natural result of cooking together what you probably had around the house anyway. Every fisherman has a fridge full of fish, a jug of Dago red, a half head of garlic, a couple onions, and some dried herbs in the cupboard from two years ago. It doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to throw them all into a pot together, especially when there’s nothing else in the house. Thank God I learned cioppino from someone who had no idea where the water came from.
Surely Mariani and Brown were both right—or, perhaps, both wrong. By hook or by crook, the name was appropriated from the Italian; thec-i-o part guarantees that. None of my Italian reference books support this claim, but none of them even discuss it, which leaves the question begging. Mariani gives no sources, so we’re left to our level of trust (a trust you’ve got to worry about when he’s the guy who says to put saffron in your cioppino). On the other hand, no one fisherman “invented” cioppino in San Francisco or any other place. The nameless Mediterranean fishermen who migrated to California simply went on making the same soup they’d always made, concocting it from the materials at hand, just as they and their ancestors had done for hundreds of years, without benefit of cookbook or authority beyond their mothers. It was bound to be different from its European cousins because the raw materials were different, but they were all born of the same stock. Surely the recipe is ancient; surely it’s as new as the New World. To pretend that it was invented out of whole cloth by the fishermen of San Francisco, though, flies in the face of history—and common sense.
Chuck went off to Alaska when the fishing died here in Oregon. Mary got left along the way. She was a fishermen’s groupie with big breasts and an appetite for guys who smelled like cod liver oil. She was destined to get left in lots of ports. I left the world of the coast altogether, moved to the big city, and found out that all sorts of people had opinions about cioppino, something we’d never even heard of in Wisconsin. By that time it didn’t matter; I was immune. I’d learned it at the source. I’d learned it from an acid-dropping, booze-swilling, loose-fisted, rebel biker turned fisherman who was happiest drifting out on the ocean far from the reach of the law. He taught me that cioppino was something you could throw together dead drunk, high as the mastheads, in a houseful of boisterous fri
ends and family at ten at night. This was strong food for strong people. It worked.
And it didn’t have no saffron.
KHICHRI/KUSHARI/KEDGEREE
1
Back in 1989, the literary magazineGranta printed an essay by Bruce Chatwin describing his experiences following Indira Gandhi on the election trail the last time that she would seek election as prime minister of India. In one of his interviews with her, the following exchange took place:
“You have said the Janata Government is akhichri. In England we have the same word, ‘kedgeree.’”
“Yes, we used to have it for breakfast at Teen Murti [her father’s house, now a museum]. Lady Mountbatten taught my father’s cook how to make it: smoked haddock, rice, and hard-boiled eggs. But in Indiakhichri means a ‘mess.’ I’ll say it again and again: ‘The Janata is a mess.’”
Reading it, I felt that gentle seismic tremor that indicates a moment of culinary enlightenment and, on its heels, a sense of wry amusement at the serendipitous ways such illuminations occur. You may read the collected works of Madhur Jaffrey from cover to cover without a hint as to India’s current political morass, but clues about Indian cooking—any kind of cooking, really—can come your way from the unlikeliest of sources.
Indira Gandhi, of course, was the daughter of Jawaharlal Nehru, and the image of Lady Mountbatten, wife of the last viceroy of India, teaching Nehru’s cook how to make kedgeree—as emblematic a dish of the British Raj as ever there could be—has a certain deliciousness. It is also ironic that Indira Gandhi was apparently unaware that, in India,khichri is also the name of a dish, a nourishing gruel of rice and lentils that is a staple of the very poor. The Nehrus, it seems, did not eat much ofthat.
However, amusing as all this may be, what set off that tremor was the wordmess. It suggested thatkhichri, like most dishes of the poor, is more a strategy than a recipe. After all, it is hard to imagine a single recipe for something called a “mess.”
Food likekhichri attracts me for two reasons. The first is that, while it is almost always inherently simple, it offers the attentive maker a wealth of interesting options. As protean as its distant Caribbean relation, rice and peas,khichri has learned over the centuries to adapt itself to many different situations and ingredients, while retaining its identity and dignity. The second reason, which is obviously related to the first, is that such a dish can make you think.
At its most elementary,khichri (which can also appear askitchri, khichdee, kitchree, etc.; I have standardized the spelling in the quotations that appear in this essay) is a gruel made of rice and any one of a number of different legumes, but most usuallymoong dal (split and hulled mung beans), seasoned withghee (clarified butter), salt, and pepper. Gruels are the foundation of the cooking of the poor. They are hot, thick, and nourishing. They extract the maximum mileage from their ingredients, because more liquid can be added to “stretch” them without violating their integrity. They hold heat and so must be eaten slowly. In sum, gruels offer the most comfort for the least amount of money.
Because all cultures begin poor, some form of gruel provides the base note of all cuisines, including our own. And, in cooking as in the evolution of the species, ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. Our roots are in our baby food. As Julie Sahni writes inClassic Indian Vegetarian and Grain Cooking,
[Khichri] is the first solid food given to an infant in India because it is mild flavored and easy to digest. It is also the basic diet of a person home with a cold or the flu. I love the creamy consistency and subtle flavor of this dish.
Even in these few short sentences you can pick up the fondness that native Indians feel forkhichri —a feeling that we will encounter again and again as we follow it on its strange and fascinating wanderings.
We who are neither babies nor down with the flu can yearn for comfort, too, but we want, even so, some kind of stimulation to spark the appetite and entertain the palate. For us, it is the milk that we pour and the sugar that we sprinkle over the cereal, the pat of butter and dab of jam we spread on the piece of toast. These additions are without any edge; other cultures like their mouthfuls less dulcet. When the Chinese sit down tocongee, for instance, the table is set with little bowls of such enhancements as minced scallion, shredded ginger, chopped fresh coriander, pickled turnips, boiled eggs, sesame oil, chili-spiked vinegar, and soy sauce.
Similarly, Indians eatkhichri with an assortment of chutneys and vegetable pickles. However, as you will see in the first recipe, the gruel can itself receive enough spicing to make it interesting when eaten as a simple one-bowl meal.
SOME INTRODUCTORY NOTES
Those of us who are approachingkhichri for the first time need to bear in mind that this is not a dish its Indian eaters think of in terms of a recipe; it is pulled together in response to those mysterious fields of force by which, somehow, countless palates spontaneously create and sustain a native cuisine. Indian cooks vary the proportion of dal to rice in theirkhichri, some using more rice, others more dal. When makingkhichri as a gruel—compare the two recipes that follow immediately below—they also vary the proportion of dal and rice to water (as we do when making oatmeal or grits) to produce different consistencies. A small amount of thedal /rice mixture cooked a long time in a lot of water makes a more glutinous,congee -like soup, while a larger amount makes a thicker, grainier-textured one.
The seasoning of the dish similarly shapes itself out of deft use of, among others, turmeric, cumin, coriander seed, clove, cinnamon, and fenugreek; fresh garlic, ginger, and hot green chile; bay, parsley, and coriander leaf. Here, too, we must feel our way, letting taste learn to find a pleasing balance. All the seasonings given in the recipes should be treated as variations on what can only be a suggested theme.
Dal.Indian cookery utilizes a wide varieties of lentils, beans, and peas, some familiar—chickpeas, kidney beans, black-eyed peas—and others not. The preferred way of preparing many of these is to reduce them to a smooth purée, and any legume that has been processed with such treatment in mind is calleddal, as is the prepared dish itself. So, the tiny, olive-drabmoong (mung) bean, when it has been dried, split, and hulled, or “washed,” now looking like a little rectangular yellow split pea, becomesmoomg dal. This is the traditionaldal for makingkhichri. It cooks quickly and requires no prior soaking, which is obviously helpful withkhichri pilaf, since the rice and beans cook together in the same time.Khichri is also made with lentils and split peas, so readers unable to findmoong dal should substitute as they see fit, making necessary adjustments for cooking times.
Ghee.Unlike clarified butter, its closest Western equivalent,ghee is cooked until all the moisture has evaporated and the butter solids have darkened, imparting a golden color and a nutty, caramel flavor to the liquid butterfat. This, when strained clear, can then be heated to 375—F before smoking, making it an ideal frying medium. A good-flavored vegetable oil such as peanut or sunflower seed can be substituted.
To makeghee, heat unsalted butter over a moderate flame in a thick-sided pot that will evenly distribute the heat. When the butter froths up, turn the flame down low. Cook until the solids have sunk to the bottom of the pan and turned from white to a tawny gold (do not let them brown). This will take some time. At that point, remove the pot from the heat and gently skim off the thin, dry crust on top of the butterfat. Reserve this. Very carefully spoon theghee, which should be a light golden color, into a sieve lined with cheesecloth and set over a bowl or jar. Do not disturb the solids at the bottom of the pan. Let theghee cool, then cover with a tight-fitting lid. The solids, any remainingghee, and the crust can be combined and used to flavor soups and vegetables, or just eaten on bread.Ghee will keep in the refrigerator for at least a month.
Rice.The standard rice for makingkhichri is Indian basmati (see rice notes on pages 21–22), widely available in natural foods stores, Oriental groceries, and many supermarkets. Indian cooks pick over the rice, removing detritus and spoiled grains, and rinse it carefully in several changes of wat
er. Some then soak the rice for a period of time before cooking it, but we have not found this necessary.
GEELI (WET) KHICHRI
(adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’sWorld-of-the-East Vegetarian Cooking )
[serves 2 to 4]
¼ cupmoong dal, picked over and rinsed
cup long-grain rice, picked over and rinsed
2 thin slices of fresh ginger, peeled
1 teaspoon salt plus freshly ground black pepper to taste
2 tablespoonsghee or vegetable oil
¼ teaspoon whole cumin seeds
OPTIONAL ACCOMPANIMENTS:
assorted Indian chutneys and vegetable pickles
Place themoong dal , rice, and ginger slices in a heavy pot and pour over 4 cups of water. Bring to a boil, stir once, lower heat until the gruel just simmers, and cover. Cook for about 1½ hours, or until the mixture has the consistency of a thick porridge. Stir occasionally with a wooden spoon during the last half hour of cooking to keep thekhichri from sticking to the bottom of the pot. Remove the ginger and season to taste with salt and black pepper.
Heat theghee or vegetable oil in a small skillet over a medium-high flame. When theghee is hot, add the cumin seeds and fry them until they begin to turn dark and release their aroma. This will take only a few seconds—do not let them burn. Pour this mixture over the hotkhichri, cover for 1 minute, then mix well and serve in bowls, with, if you like, various Indian chutneys and vegetable pickles to be spooned over to taste.
Khichriis often eaten with vegetables. Sometimes these are incorporated directly into the gruel—in herWorld-of-the-East Vegetarian Cooking, Madhur Jaffrey does this with spinach. Other times they are cooked separately but eaten together, as Julie Sahni shows in this thickerkhichri served with potato (a favorite Indian vegetable) and bell pepper.
GEELI KHICHRI WITH POTATOES AND PEPPERS
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