Earnestly speechless

Before Easter celebrations roll in, please, let me tell you real, real, real quick about this simple, simple, simple dish that would do no less than be a graceful side to meat, poultry, and even fish, should that be your main! Like I just said, the dish is awfully simple. But what you also should know, and consider this your fortune, is that it is utterly delicious. So much so that every time I dig my fork in it, I want to fling my room window open and scream, scream, scream my excitement out at the people on the street, because I swear I get so thrilled about the stuff by every mouthful that I want everybody in the world to know what I know. And it is this: fried potatoes with coriander, cumin and spring onions are terrifyingly awesome together. So much so that it makes me earnestly speechless – even voiceless. And that, as you can see, clashes with my plans to scream. I don’t quite know what I’m going to do, except that I am going to eat those potatoes as much as I can. And if possible, I am going to eat only those potatoes. Come Easter there will be no exception. I’m sure.

At this point I think I should tell you that I am, by default, no stranger to a good potato. The reason is that I am Russian. Consider this for a moment: In the year 2007, Russia, the e-site potato2008.org tells us, was ranked second among the world top ten potato producers. The same potato2008.org says that in potato consumption, Russians “took silver” as well. I personally can testify to that. I grew up in a family where potatoes were bought in sackfuls every fall to last us through the winter months. Up to this day, the tradition, of which my grandparents are in charge, is still running.

Since my childhood up until a few years ago, fried potatoes with onions was the most frequent dish to appear on my plate. I was so familiarized with the stuff that at some point it became impossible for me to get excited about a good potato at all, is what I’m saying. Impossible until I tried the recipe for Lebanese fried potatoes with coriander from the MORO East book last week, that is. Since then, all I want is to scream from, and with, excitement.

Happy Easter, Dear Reader!

Fried potatoes with coriander (cilantro)

Adapted from MORO East by Samantha and Samuel Clark

Serves 4 as a side dish or 2 as a main course

1 (about 2 pounds) kg potatoes, peeled and washed
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
½ tsp ground cumin
10 spring onions, thinly sliced
Large bunch of coriander (around 50 grams), finely chopped (stalks included)
8 Tbsp (120 ml) olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

1) Cut the potatoes in half and place them in a large pot. Cover with cold water, add salt and bring to a boil. Cook for about 15-20 mins, or until the potatoes are tender, but not mushy. Drain and let cool until they are comfortably warm to handle.

2) Cut the potatoes in chunks. Gently toss with the cumin, garlic, half the spring onions and half the coriander, making sure not to break the potatoes. Add salt and pepper to taste.

3) In a wide non-stick skillet, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the potatoes and fry on one side until these are golden and a bit crispy, about 10 mins. Turn them over with a wooden spoon, taking care not to break them, and fry until the other side is also golden. Transfer to a large serving bowl and combine with the remaining coriander and spring onions. Adjust the seasonings.

I behave accordingly

Dear Reader, I have a bit of news to share!

Those of you who’ve been hanging around here for quite a while (oh lovelies!) must know that since last August

I’ve been working at Gebroeders Niemeijer as a dishwasher, assisting occasionally in tasks like the tartlets-forming or the tartlet dough-making.

I don’t think I told you but for the last few months of 2009, I even used to start my working Sundays in the bakery at 6:30 in the morning. I was meant to help a young French baker Arnaud with early-morning routines until the service in the adjacent breakfast/lunch room would start, after which I’d proceed with the dishes until 6 in the evening. It was a magnificent experience to be in the warmth of the bakery under the veil of pre-dawn winter darkness creating something yeasty and buttery while the rest of the world was still sound asleep. It is indeed a fulfilling feeling to see the results of your labour, almost always backbreaking, on people’s plates.

So the news is that since early February I am known not only as a dishwasher who helps the bakers, but also as a baker’s apprentice. Issa, our master baker, is teaching me the art of pastry making.

At this point I’m in the process of mastering crème au citron (lemon curd), among a few other things. In particular, I’m learning the ways how to feverishly whisk it ten minutes straight and NOT to scream from the numb pain in my right arm.

Let me just repeat: I am a baker’s apprentice. Respect.

That said, were I now writing about another dessert, I’m sure you’d consider a smack in my face. Who am I kidding, another story – what, sixth in a row? -- about something sweet and I, too, would happily slap myself. To avoid any self-abuse, I was thus going to tell you about kale gratin today. I thought it would make for a juicy story. Namely, about how an American guy named Anthony (thirty of age) knew zilch about a vegetable called kale until I invited myself to his kitchen the other day bringing along a pound of stemmed and chopped curly kale to make an eponymous gratin dish. Three out of the four eaters at the table loved it, except myself. Which made me infuriated to the eleventh power. To make me like the stuff, the idea emerged to sub kale for spinach and cut down somewhat on cream and butter. Anthony did as he was told, except that he charred the lot. What exited the oven were the kale ashes. And so the story of kale gratin was buried. Aw shucks! My gumption plummeted, I went back home starving.

In my makeshift pantry (originally, a cupboard) that can barely accommodate three cans of Kusmi Tea, two bags of flour, six small glass jars with various grains and a few more other items, there is always a room for a jumbo jar of creamy peanut butter. (Dutch are ardent peanut butter eaters. I joined the ranks.) Starving, I was tempted to have mouthfuls of the stuff for dinner. But I’m almost twenty-six, so I expect from myself to behave accordingly. I chopped up and browned some onions and garlic, along with fresh ginger; added diced carrots and vegetable stock; brought it all to a boil and then simmered all that until the carrots were soft; and finally stirred in some peanut butter before pureeing the pot's contents.

Yes, I made carrot and peanut butter soup.

Did you know how lovable these two are together?? L.O.V.E.A.B.L.E.

Broad shoulders of peanut butter and a wasp-like waistline of carrots…This velvety bright soup has its own yin and yang of flavours – assertive and delicate, savoury and sweet, earthy and warm. It’s soothing. It’s relaxing. It’s a perfect fare to even out, say, sugar level imbalances that might still be ailing you after I so blatantly subjected you to one dessert after another for months in a row. But there is more to come, you know. So never shall it be said I am stuffing you with sweets without offering you something nourishing in between!

Carrot and Peanut Butter Soup
Serves 4

1 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
1 tsp minced garlic
1 tsp minced ginger
Cayenne pepper
Salt
6 cups vegetable stock or water
4 cups diced carrots
2 laurel leaves
5 sprigs fresh cilantro or flat-leaf parsley (for cooking you will only need finely chopped stems; save the leaves for garnishing)
1/4 cup peanut butter

1. In a large pot, heat 1 Tbsp olive oil over medium fire. Add the onions and cook until browned, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger. Throw in a pinch of salt and cayenne each. Cook for another minute.

2. Dump in the carrots and pour in the stock or water. Add the laurel leaves and the cilantro stems. Bring to boil. Reduce to simmer and cook until the carrots are soft, about 20 mins. Remove from the heat. Discard the laurel leaves.

3. Stir in the peanut butter. Mix well.

4. Using a blender, puree the soup. Hot liquids expand in volume, so work in batches, 2 or 3 cups at a time. If the soup is too thick, thin it out with more veg stock or water (start with 1/4 cup).

5. Taste and add more cayenne or salt, if needed.

6. Garnish with fresh cilantro or parsley leaves. Serve hot.

A synonym for health

One year zipped past, but I haven’t got any cleverer than I was in the january of 2009 when I, just like now, went to Russia wearing a flimsy woolen coat, hoping that it would solely protect me against perky way-below-zero frosts and merry snowfalls.

Oh silly, silly me!

Up there is a preamble to say that last fourteen days I spent in tight embrace of a nasty cold and its bosom friend -- misery. Not too much of a good time, you understand. Especially so, when more than ever do I now need my brains crystal clear. The whole January I have been tackling a task that requires a condition of an undiluted mental concentration on my part – I had to write three academic essays before February dawns. But no, the universe thought I’d have a time of my life penning those with my mind in thick haze and my nose dripping like a leaking faucet (sorry!). It was no fun, is what I want to say.

So with all that freezing, sneezing, shivering and coughing, I found myself obsessively hankering for oatmeal raisin cookies too. Isn’t oats a synonym for health? See?

Could there be anything easier on earth than to make oatmeal raisin cookies? You only need to schlep-schlep-schlep in the kitchen to cream some butter with some sugar; to beat in some egg; to fold in some flour, oats and raisins; and to mix all that well to form the cookie dough which you’d then scoop out onto the baking dish and send into the oven for fifteen minutes. Simple?

Not so.

The problem is that I chose the wrong recipe which, as I learnt, is better suited for a dustbin than for anything else. It was no fun to make oatmeal cookies that would look as bad as I felt. It wasn’t oatmeal raisin cookies. It was oatmeal raisin spookies. I even can’t call it that, because there was so little oatmeal in the dough that the only place where you could find some was in the recipe’s title.

Terrified, but not defeated, I took the recipe and tweaked it as I pleased, which included reducing the sugar level; upping the oats contents; swapping all—purpose flour for oat flour (we are talking health here, no?); and shaking a firm no to the original instruction to add water to the flour. It took me three batches in total to bring these poor souls to their normal cozy, pretty selves: chewy in the pale center, crisp around the slightly tanned edges, sweet enough to please but not to cloy, and most importantly, cold- and stress-eliminating. And isn’t it what we want from a cookie?

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

Adapted from Yuliya Vysotskaya, a russian cookbook author

Yields 8-10

100gr (1/2 cup) butter, softened
100 gr (½ cup) light brown sugar
1 Tbsp vanilla sugar
1 medium egg, at room temperature
100 gr oat flour (which you can easily make by grinding oat flakes in a coffee grinder)
100 gr (3/4 cup) raisins
70 gr (1 cup) quick oats (not steel cut!)

1. Preheat the oven to 180 C (350 F) and cover a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl – you will only need one bowl for this recipe; isn’t it sweet? -- beat the butter until creamy. Add the sugars; keep beating until fluffy. Beat in the egg.

3. Sift in the oat flour; stir. Fold in the raisins and oats and mix well. The dough will be sticky.

4. Using a tablespoon, scoop out the dough onto the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 15-20 mins; the cookies should be golden brown at the edges and pale in the center. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool. Upon exiting the oven, the cookies will be somewhat soft until fully cooled.

For cake's sake!!

Sugar, I need a break from you. You are sweet and I like you to insanity. But familiarity breeds contempt, remember? So stay away from me. Not for too long though, for a while. See you very soon. Maybe tomorrow.

Holy baking powder, why only now do I see that for the past two and a half months I’ve been feverishly writing about nothing else but desserts? From this, you would think all I’ve been eating is sweets, no?

Well, yes. Sort of. Cake here, pie there, nothing much, really. But recently instead of basking in pleasure, I found myself cringe at the sight of yet another, however lip-smackingly delicious, dessert. A ‘sugarization’ syndrome, let me tell you. An awful, hair-splitting thing, that. For cake’s sake, mouth-watering desserts should be revered, not pulled a face at! So I decided I should un-sugar myself before getting loaded up again. As soon as I’m finished with this beggar, that is.

I have my priorities, don’t you know.

In other news, two years ago today I started Godful Food. Or Godful Food started me. I don’t know. I’ll try to avoid overwhelming sentimentality here, so I’ll just say oh boy, does this little blog means loads to me. Foremost, because it, quite simply, brings you, Dear Reader, into my life!

It also teaches me to share. Take this Napoleon cake, for example. Under different circumstances, I have no doubts I’d lock myself in a room, pull up the window curtains and toss the stuff down – all by myself. Instead, I hasten to log on Godful Food and share my treasures with you. True, I may stumble along the way and turn the cake into a mess, metaphorically speaking or not. Or I may turn up too late so nobody wants a dessert any more. No matter what, you keep coming back, making this place feel like home to me. Thank you, folks!

Now, I’m not going to have to deal with this Napoleon myself. Reader, please, be my ally! It has come time that this thing, this delicious bastard, finally knows where it belongs -- on our dessert plates.

Forks up, friends!

On a curious note: they say Napoleon cake, French by origin, is so named not after the French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, but after Naples, a city in Italy. Whichever, Napoleon is just one of the many nicks of the mille-feuille, the puff pastry with the vanilla cream.

My Napoleon is called Russian for a reason (we always seem to want to have everything our way). Basically, Napoleon is made of three layers of puff pastry jacketed in two layers of vanilla cream, just as befitted the tradition. Russians figured it’s better to make ten or even more puff pastry layers, each blessed with the custard cream. Like I said, being so labour-intensive –and, by extension, swear-words inducing -- this one is meant for big days, like Christmas, or birthday, or blog’s anniversary, no less.

Russian Napoleon Cake

(my family recipe)

Serves 16-18

For the pastry

4 cups (500gr) all-purpose flour, sifted
3 ½ stick (400 gr) butter, cut in ½ inch (apprx. 1 cm) dices
½ cup (125 ml) crème fraiche, cold
½ cup (125 ml) ice cold water
1 large egg
a pinch of salt

For the custard cream

4 cups (1 L) whole milk
2 large eggs
2 cups (400 gr) sugar
5 Tbsp (40 gr) all-purpose flour
2 sticks (250 gr) butter, cut in small pieces
1 Tbsp pure vanilla extract

To make the pastry:

1. In a large stainless-steel bowl, and using two sharp paring knives, cut the butter into the flour. The mixture should look pebbly, and lumps of butter should not be larger than a pea.

2. In a small bowl, beat the egg and the salt together. Add the crème fraiche, followed by the water; mix well.

3. Pour the crème fraiche mixture, ½ cup at a time, into the flour-butter mixture. Mix until just combined. Tap the dough out onto a floured surface and knead the dough until elastic and smooth (don’t overwork the dough!).

4. Divide the dough into 10 parts. Form balls. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours, or preferably overnight.

5. Preheat the oven to 425 F (220 C).

6. Take the dough out of the fridge, one ball at a time (the butter that’s in the dough should not melt before it goes in the oven, otherwise you won’t get flaky pastry at the end). On a well-floured working surface, roll out each ball into a thin – as thin as you can -- circle, about 10 inch (24 cm) wide. Roll the dough circle onto a lightly-floured rolling pin, and then unroll it carefully on a baking sheet, covered with parchment paper. Prick with a fork and put in the oven for about 3-5 mins, or until the dough gets lightly golden. Remove from the oven and put aside.

7. Repeat with the remaining balls of dough.

8. Bake the last circle a bit longer than the rest -- until it turns brown. Later you’ll use it, crumbled, for decorating the cake.


To make the custard cream:

1. In a medium non-stick pan, bring half of the milk (1/2 L or 500 ml) to a boil over a low flame.

2. In the meantime, beat the eggs and the sugar together. Add the flour and whisk until the flour is fully incorporated (there should be no lumps left). Pour another half of the milk; stir well.

3. Starting with 1 cup at a time, slowly add the flour mixture into the boiling milk. Working on low heat, stir constantly to avoid burning of the milk. Keep stirring until the mixture becomes thick. Take off the heat. Let cool.

4. When the mixture is still warm enough to make the butter melt, add the butter and the vanilla extract. Stir well until fully dissolved. Let cool completely.

To assemble:

1. Using the back of a soup spoon, spread a ladleful of the cream evenly on every crust, except for the brown one.

2. After every two or three layers, press gently on the cake to make the cream moisturize the crusts.

3. Crush the brown crust by running it over with the rolling pin. Sprinkle the crumbs over the top and the sides of the cake. (You can also use ground walnuts for this).

4. If your Napoleon has uneven edges, you can easily fix it by cutting them off with a sharp knife. (Although I prefer my Napoleon rustic, with all its ruggedness).

5. Let stand for a couple hours. The cake keeps beautifully in the fridge for up to one week.

Readying myself

For some, Christmas and New Year’s holidays have become a glowing memory by now. For some others, a festive table is still set, and a blood sugar level keeps increasing by the day. I’m writing this from Russia (visiting my family), knee-lengths in candies and baked goods, readying myself for yet another massive intake of all things sweet. Say I’m sick I won’t. It’s Orthodox Christmas around here today, after all.

[However surprising or confusing or both, but Christmas in Russia is celebrated on January 7th. Don’t blame the vicar (hello, Anthony!), blame the old Julian calendar.]

They say kutya (KOO-TYA) -- porridge made of wheat or rice grains (symbols of immortality) and honey (a token of happiness) – is an iconic Russian Christmas dish. I can’t attest to that, because in my family, it’s not Christmas without a Napoleon – many-layered cake enrobed in vanilla-scented custard cream, a symbol of my happiness.

Flaky, moist and tender, it’s the-heart-takes-a-lift-to-heaven good. It’s worth every swearing word (on Christmas Eve!) you may hiss while rolling out the gossamer sheets of dough, one by one, ten in total. Insane. Delicious.

The recipe I’ll post soon, I promise. Right now I’m rushing to my grandmother’s for a festive family gathering. But before I go, please take a piece, Dear Reader. It’s for you!

Happy, Happy Holidays!

Here is to more, friends!!

One bold, stout imperative

Dear Reader, I don’t think I ever got as daring as to dictate to you what to do, but today, be warned, I’ll toss one bold, stout imperative around here. In fact, I’ll start with it.

My apologies for being so demanding, but you must make this hot chocolate. Like, now. Why must you, you wonder? For one, it’s impressively delicious. Two, Christmas is almost here, at our table, so start feasting we should. And most of all, because you’ll love it. Oh yes, you will.

Just make it, would you? Please.

I’ve always dreamt of having hot chocolate that would be more than just squares of chocolate drowned in hot milk. For a few years I drifted from one recipe to another in hope to find the one, which I finally found last week, seated snugly in a book The Secrets of Baking by Sherry Yard.

What gives this hot chocolate its distinguishing mark is ganache, unquestionably the heart of the beverage in question. So while you make the ganache – you take one part dark chocolate, which you finely chop and put in a heatproof bowl, and one part cream, which you boil, then pour over the chocolate, and stir gently, for two minutes, until the chocolate is married into the cream – let me also tell you, real quick, about my trip to Brussels last week. (Holy chocolate bar, it seems only fitting to talk about chocolate and Brussels, the world’s chocolate capital, all at once.)

Not so long ago, we, Anthony and I, two 'frenemies', figured it would be a good idea to take a two-day break from our respective duties to go to Brussels for no reason other than to eat, Brussels-style. Among the chocolate and macarons by Pierre Marcolini...

...and the Liege waffles, hot, right from the griddle (to be gobbled up on the city’s hilly cobbled streets),

our expedition also included a dinner at a local, one-hundred-and-four years old eating establishment, the restaurant Vincent specializing in fish and meat/poultry fare with hearty and heartful Belgian flair.

There I had my ‘revelation’ in the form of black pepper sauce. It was a diamond crowning a piece of fillet mignon, moist and rosy in the middle and flawlessly browned from the outside. It wouldn’t be a crazy thing to say that that sauce resembled me of peppery chocolate, not a single whisper of sweetness, God forbid – rather, a deep, savoury voice of cocoa beans. Goodness me, that sauce, I would kill for it.

Besides stirring a black papper sauce-maniac in me, Brussels made me feel nostalgic and heart-tickled.

Nostalgic, because grey clouds in Brussels are comforting and soothing, they didn’t rush from one corner of the sky to another like grey mice in a church. Instead, they resembled, in my mind, that smoky grey thick woolen blanket I got from my grandmother as a Christmas present when I was a kid, eternity ago.

Heart-tickled, even heart-stung, because I was already missing this city, its Christmas lights, its streets that bear food names, its air saturated with sweet wafts escaping the street waffle stands way before we even caught a train to take us to Brussels.

But I’m glad I’m not alone in this boat. Anthony confides he is missing Brussels too, in particular, its beers which God knows how many he managed to smuggle back to Amsterdam.

It was a nourishing trip. A Christmas gift to ourselves.

Now take whole milk and heavy cream, and bring to a boil. Add cocoa powder; whisk. Fold in the ganache you’ve just made; stir. That’s it. The way to elation has never been so short. Isn’t it amazing how something so decadent and luxurious is so elementary to make? I’m unfailingly astonished, too.

Merry Christmas, Dear Reader!

And thank you for being there, on the other side of the screen, so to speak, reading my stories and tasting with me all along -- I’m raising this steaming cup of chocolate to you!

Sherry Yard’s Hot Chocolate

Adapted from The Secrets of Baking, by Sherry Yard

Yield: five 8-ounces (250 ml) cups

2 cups (500 ml) whole milk

½ cup (125 ml) cream
2 Tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
8 ounces (250 gr) bittersweet dark chocolate (the best you can get) 1 cup (250 ml) cream
½ tsp vanilla extract (optional)

1. Make the ganache. Grind or finely chop the chocolate; big pieces will fail to melt. Put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Over medium heat, bring the cream to a boil in a small saucepan. Immediately pour the cream over the chocolate. Tap the bowl – this will help the chocolate to settle into the cream. Let sit for 1 min. With a rubber spatula, start stirring slowly, working carefully to avoid adding too much air to the ganache. Keep stirring until all the chocolate is melted, 2 minutes. Sherry says the ganache may look like it’s ready after 1 minute of continuous stirring, but don’t get tricked, she warns, and keep going to ensure a proper emulsification (the emulsification combines the fat in chocolate with the water in cream, a process the result of which, like I said before, is sanity-killing, silky, glossy ganache). Once done, set the bowl aside.

2. Bring the milk and cream to a boil in the same saucepan you used for boiling the cream for the ganache. Add the cocoa powder and whisk thoroughly to blend. Remove from the heat and fold in the ganache. Let sit for 1 min. Then stir until well combined, about 4 mins. Add the vanilla extract (if using), and stir once again.

3. Serve while hot. This drink, writes Ms Yard, keeps well, covered, in the fridge for up to 2 (!!) weeks. Just reheat it briefly before serving, although I don’t know who is in their right mind would ever stay away from it for as much as two weeks, gosh!

Addresses

Restaurant Vincent

Rue des Dominicains, 8-10

Pierre Marcolini

Rue des Minimes, 1