Best Food Writing 2013

by Holly Hughes

  Right off the bat, there are some issues I have with this process—flour-based roux can be pasty, and cooking the clams as long as the potatoes is a surefire path to rubbery clams. These issues would all need to be addressed. But first things first.

  The Pork

  There are a few salted pork options at the supermarket:

  •Sliced Bacon is the most widely available, and what most folks buy for breakfast. It works in a chowder, but I find the smoky flavor of bacon can be a little overwhelming for the delicate clams. Thin slices also achieve an unpleasant texture as they simmer in the broth. A better option is . . . -

  •Slab Bacon, cut into ½-by ¼-by ¼-inch lardons (that’s fancy French for “chunks”) is a much better option. I like the meaty chunks you end up with in the broth. They match the texture of the clams, making the whole dish more cohesive. But again, its smokiness can be distracting, which leads us to . . .

  •Salt Pork, which is simply salted and cured un-smoked pork fat and meat. It can be made from three different parts of the pig—belly, side, and back. The further up the back you go, the fattier the salt pork gets. I find the fat back to be a little too fatty, turning soft and greasy in the chowder. Better is to look for salt pork with an equal mix of fat and lean.

  With any form of pork, the key is to go low and slow so that the fat renders out completely without letting the pork burn. This gives you a great base in which to sweat your vegetables.

  Of course, you can also go completely pork-less—there is plenty of precedent for that.

  The Aromatics

  Onions, celery, and bay leaf are the traditional flavorings here, and I found no reason to stray from them. I tried a few versions with things like carrots, thyme, leeks, and garlic, but in all cases found them to be distracting, taking away from the inherent chowderiness of the broth. It simply didn’t taste like childhood to me with the alternatives.

  The Clams

  Here we begin to see a bit of micro-regional variation. Just as eastern North Carolina barbecue differs from western North Carolina Barbecue, so does New England clam chowder made in Cape Cod differ from that made in, say, Mystic, Connecticut. The variation largely comes down to the size of the clam used.

  Clams are slow-growing bivalves, and their size can vary tremendously depending on the age at which they are harvested. Under the best conditions, a clam can grow up to quahog size in 3 to 4 years.

  At a good market, you might run into the following types of live clams:

  •Countnecks, the smallest size legally harvested. They are not too common.

  •Littlenecks, the next size up, and what you are likely to encounter at a raw bar, or on top of a Connecticut pizza.

  •Topnecks, one size bigger than a littleneck, but not as large as a cherrystone. The term is very rarely used—you’re more likely to see them lumped in with either the littlenecks or the cherrystones at the fish market or in a restaurant.

  •Cherrystones are quite large—usually around 4 to 7 to a pound—and are used primarily for stuffing and baking. Finally . . .

  •Quahogs (pronounced KO-HOG) are the largest, sometimes weighing as much as half a pound or more. Round where I grew up, they’re known as “chowder clams,” and it’s for good reason—their large size makes them very easy to process for chowder, and not great for much else.

  On the Cape, most chowders are made exclusively from quahogs—they’re inexpensive, and very meaty. Smaller littlenecks and cherrystones are better reserved for more expensive uses like raw bars and baking.

  But does that mean that we ought to be stuck using them at home?

  I cooked batches of chowder side-by-side, using variously sized clams and found that in the end, cherrystones and littlenecks were actually superior to quahogs, offering a more tender texture.

  Fresh Clam Alternatives

  Ok, I get it. Some people just can’t get fresh clams where they live. Is it the end of the world? Not really. Many restaurants—reputable ones who make great chowder, at that—use canned or frozen chopped clams to great effect. Clam juice can also be an effective way of adding in some clam flavor—even when the fresh guys are available. I prefer frozen chopped clams to minced canned clams.

  Whatever clams you choose to use, there’s still the question of the best way to cook them.

  Clam-Coaxin’

  For fresh clams steaming is the method of choice. By adding a bit of liquid (plain water or clam juice work fine) to the pot after sweating my aromatics and adding the clams, I could get the suckers to steam open in a matter of minutes. I pull them out of the pot as their shells pop open, draining their liquid into the pot, then removing the flesh with a spoon before roughly chopping it.

  In no time, you should have a pot full of flavorful clam liquid, and a pile of chopped clams on the side. Adding the clams immediately back to the pot is a mistake I’ve often made in the past. Clams are finicky little suckers. They’ll go from sweet and tender to overcooked and rubbery in the blink of an eye, and cooking them for as long as it takes to soften a pot of potatoes is a one-way ticket to Rubber City.

  The solution? Save those clams for the end.

  I chop up the clams, transfer them to a strainer set over a bowl (to collect any juices that drip out from inside), then set them aside until just before serving the chowder. If you’re using canned or frozen clams, this is even easier—just dump the clams straight in during the last minute or two of simmering.

  Sickening Thickening

  Now comes the real deep philosophical questions. How do you thicken a chowder properly? Currently, I’d been using a roux-based option. That is, a little flour cooked in the rendered bacon fat used to bind together and thicken the chowder as it simmers.

  It’s a method that works, if a smooth, homogenous liquid is all you’re after. But it also creates that “award-winning” sludge effect, where the chowder becomes so thick and goopy that the flavors—those delicate flavors of clam and pork—are muddied. There has to be a better way.

  My next thought was to use the thickening power of potatoes to act as a binder. I knew that starchier potatoes like russets are more likely to break down into a broth than waxier potatoes like reds or Yukon golds, but I gave all three a shot.

  Russets were the way to go. They not only thicken the best, but they also have the most tender, potatoey texture in the finished dish. That said, with the elimination of the roux, none of the chowders came out particularly successfully. They inevitably ended up with a greasy, broken appearance and an off-putting curdled texture.

  Why does this happen?

  Well, a chowder (and all non-non-fat dairy, for that matter) is what we call an emulsion: It’s a stable mixture of two things that generally don’t like to mix very well, in this case water, and fat derived both from the milk/cream, and from the pork. As a general rule, fat molecules like to stick together, while water molecules like to push them as far away as possible. In order to get a smooth, creamy chowder, you need to figure out a way to get them to play nicely together and integrate.

  When you pour your milk out of the carton, it comes out as a homogenous, creamy mixture. This is because it’s gone through a process called homogenization, in which the the milk is forced at high pressure through a super-fine mesh. This breaks the fat into ultra-tiny droplets, each one of which gets completely surrounded by water molecules, preventing them from rejoining.

  Think of the fat as a small group of 49ers fans stuck in a bar in Baltimore. Let them in as a group, and they’ll stick together. But let them in one at a time, and it becomes much more difficult for them to find each other, leading to a more homogenous mix in the bar.

  Now, let’s say that a few of those 49ers fans happen to find each other, forming a small group. Suddenly, that group is much more visible to the rest of the 49ers fans, causing them to get drawn towards it. Eventually, you’ll find that very rapidly, your balanced mix is broken, your 49ers fans once again forming a distinct blob in the sea of Ravens fans.

&
nbsp; Similarly with an emulsified liquid, disturbing this careful mix even slightly—by, say, heating it—can cause the fat to rapidly separate out from the liquid. What’s worse is that once a bit of fat starts to coalesce, it can quickly trigger all the fat to coalesce. So how does one keep an emulsion stable?

  One way is to use a roux, which adds flour particles to the mix that physically impede fat droplets from coalescing. But we’ve already eliminated that option.

  What about using the potatoes better?

  At first, I tried adding a few very thin slices of potato to the mix, figuring they’d break down into individual starch granules relatively rapidly in the broth.

  It didn’t work. The chowder was still broken.

  All right, what if instead of waiting for the potatoes to break down naturally, I give them a bit of mechanical aid? I cooked up another batch, this time forcing the potatoes through a potato ricer and whisking the resulting puree into the broth. No good. The broth was lumpy, off-puttingly grainy, and to top it off, still broken.

  Next, I figured that perhaps my cooking method had something to do with the broth constantly breaking. I know that vigorous heating can cause cream to separate. I also know that the exact ratio of cream to milk, and when in the process the cream is added, can have a big impact on how its fat and water content behaves.

  I attempted a dozen more versions, adjusting milk to cream ratios (broken), starting some with just milk and finishing with cream (still broken), using slightly lower amounts of roux (pasty-tasting up until the roux is nearly eliminated, in which case, broken), using only broth to cook the vegetables and finishing with cream and milk, and all the variations in between.

  Failure after failure after failure.

  It’s not that any of the chowders were bad, per se. Certainly the flavor of the broth was superior to the vast majority of restaurant versions, and the texture of the clams and potatoes was spot-on. It’s just the liquid that suffered appearance and texture-wise without the roux to hold it together.

  Then I realized: Perhaps preventing it from breaking is not the way to go about this. Why not just let the darn stuff break, and fix it later?

  For my next batch, I made a chowder using the most succesful technique I had attempted thus far, cooking the potatoes and vegetables in milk and adding the cream at the end. This time, instead of just stirring the chopped clams into the broken end result, I strained the chowder through a fine mesh strainer and dumped the liquid into my blender, figuring that the violent mechanical action of the blender should be powerful enough to break up those fat droplets, as well as to pulverize a few of the potato cells that may have made their way in there, releasing their starch and helping to keep the mixture homogenous.

  It worked like a charm. What came out of the blender was a rich, creamy, perfectly smooth liquid that tasted of clams, pork, and dairy. Not too thick, not too thin, not pasty in the slightest. I poured the liquid back over my strained solids, added the chopped clams, reheated the whole deal, and seasoned it.

  Am I overcomplicating things here? Perhaps. But I don’t think so.

  Indeed, I believe that if a traditional dish can be improved using modern techniques and equipment while still maintaining their historic and cultural core, then it is our duty to do so. Chowders have been changing steadily for the past several hundred years, which, incidentally, means that anyone who tells you “that’s not real clam chowder” or “chowder needs this or that” is, frankly, full of it. Why should we now choose to freeze chowders in time, when more than ever before, we have an understanding of the hows and whys of cooking?

  What ended up in my bowl was more than just the platonic ideal of my childhood Cape Cod memories, it was a dish with a real sense of history about it. Some folks have tried to argue that barbecue is the only true regional American cuisine, the only dish with an identity in both time and place. Well, I have a bowl of chowder here that begs to differ.

  The only detail remaining? Oyster crackers. Chowder needs oyster crackers. It simply wouldn’t be a real clam chowder without’em.

  New England Clam Chowder

  ½ pound salt pork or bacon, cut into ½-inch cubes

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 medium onion, finely chopped (about 1 cup)

  2 stalks celery, finely chopped (about 1 cup)

  1 cup water or clam juice

  2 ½ pounds live cherrystone or littleneck clams (see note above)

  1 quart whole milk

  1 ½ pounds russet or yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes

  2 bay leaves

  Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

  1 cup heavy cream

  Oyster crackers, for serving

  Combine salt pork and ¼ cup water in a heavy-bottomed stock pot or Dutch oven. over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until water has evaporated and pork has begun to brown and crisp in spots, about 8 minutes. Add butter, onion, and celery. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until onions are softened but not browned, about 4 minutes longer. Add clam juice or water and stir to combine.

  Add clams or quahogs and increase heat to high. Cover and cook, opening lid to stir occasionally, until clams begin to open, about 3 minutes. As clams open, remove them with tongs and transfer to a large bowl, keeping as many juices in the pot as possible and keeping the lid shut as much as possible. After 8 minutes, discard any clams that have not yet begun to open.

  Add milk, potatoes, bay leaves, and a pinch of salt and pepper to the pot. Bring to a boil, reduce to a bare simmer, and cook, stirring occasionally, until potatoes are tender and starting to break down, about 15 minutes.

  Meanwhile, remove meat from inside the clams and roughly chop it. Discard empty shells. Transfer chopped clams and as much juice as possible to a fine mesh strainer set over a large bowl. Let clams drain, then transfer chopped clams to a separate bowl. Set both bowls aside.

  Once potatoes are tender, pour the entire mixture through the fine mesh strainer into the bowl with the clam juice, rapping the strainer with the back of a knife or a honing steel to get the liquids to pass through. Transfer strained solids to the bowl with the chopped clams. You should end up with a white, semi-broken broth in the bowl underneath, and the chopped clams, potatoes, salt pork, and aromatics in the separate bowl.

  Transfer liquid to a blender and blend on high speed until smooth and emulsified, about 2 minutes Return liquid and solids back to Dutch oven. Add heavy cream and stir to combine. Reheat until simmering. Season well with salt and pepper. Serve immediately with oyster crackers.

  STEP TWO: SAUTÉ ONIONS AND OTHER AROMATIC VEGETABLES

  By Michael Pollan

  From Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation

  Ever since his 2006 bestseller The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Michael Pollan has become the one food writer most Americans know by name. In his steady evolution from environmental journalist to gastronome, Cooked is his most culinary book yet.

  Sundays with Samin—our usual day together—always began the same way, with her bursting into the kitchen around three in the afternoon and plopping a couple of cotton market bags onto the island. From these she would proceed to pull out her cloth portfolio of knives, her apron, and, depending on the dish we were making, her prodigious collection of spices. This notably included a tin of saffron the size of a coffee can. Her mom sent her these eye-popping quantities of saffron, which whenever a recipe called for it Samin would sprinkle as liberally as salt.

  “I’m soooo excited!” she’d invariably begin, in a singsong, as she tied her apron around her waist. “Today, you are going to learn how to brown meat.” Or make a soffritto. Or butterfly a chicken. Or make a fish stock. Samin could get excited about the most mundane kitchen procedures, but her enthusiasm was catching, and eventually I came to regard it as almost a kind of ethic. Even browning meat, an operation that to me seemed fairly self-evident if not banal, deserved to be done with the utmost care and attention, and so with passion. At stake was the
eater’s experience. There was also the animal to consider, which you honored by making the very most of whatever it had to offer. Samin made sure there was also a theme undergirding each lesson: the Maillard reaction (when browning meat); eggs and their magical properties; the miracle of emulsification; and so forth. Over the course of a year, we made all sorts of main course dishes, as well as various salads and sides and desserts. Yet it seemed our main courses always came back to pot dishes, and we probably cooked more braises than anything else.

  Much like a stew, a braise is a method of cooking meat and/or vegetables slowly in a liquid medium. In a stew, however, the main ingredient is typically cut into bite-sized pieces and completely submerged in the cooking liquid. In a braise, the main ingredient is left whole or cut into larger pieces (with meat ideally left on the bone) and only partially submerged in liquid. This way, the bottom of the meat is stewed, in effect, while the exposed top part is allowed to brown, making for richer, more complex flavors as well as, usually, a thicker sauce and a prettier dish.

  Samin and I braised duck legs and chicken thighs, roosters and rabbits, various unprepossessing cuts of pork and beef, the shanks and necks of lamb, turkey legs, and a great many different vegetables. Each of these dishes called for a braising liquid, and at one time or another we used them all: red wine and white, brandy and beer, various stocks (chicken, pork, beef, fish), milk, tea, pomegranate juice, dashi (a Japanese stock made from seaweed and flaked bonito), the liquid left over from soaked mushrooms and beans, and water straight from the tap. We also made dishes that were not, technically, stews or braises, but were built on the same general principle, including sugo or ragù (or ragoût), bouillabaisse, risotto, and paella.

  More often than not, the general principle called for a foundational dice of onions and other aromatic vegetables, which I would try to get ready before Samin showed up. And more often than not, Samin would take one look at the neat piles of chopped onions, carrots, and celery on my cutting board (the height of said piles conforming to the prescribed ratio of 2:1:1) and tell me to rechop them, because my dice wasn’t fine enough.