Sunday, August 19, 2007

Desserts Should Not Be Controlled Substances

When enjoying a meal at a fine restaurant, there are two things one should eschew if one wishes to avoid disappointment: The first is coffee, which I shall discuss at another time. The second thing that you must avoid is dessert.

Indeed, in American restaurants at any rate, a good rule of thumb is that the finer the savory elements of your meal, the more likely dessert is to be unsatisfying. The reason for this is simple: American pastry chefs seek to display their control over flavors instead of simply reveling in them.

I call out American pastry chefs here because most European pastry chefs seem to have a good understanding of the value of tradition, but I am quite certain that many among the international set are equally guilty. Indeed, it is said that Ho Chi Minh trained as a pastry chef under Escoffier himself, and look how that turned out. No, perhaps it would be safest to view all pastry chefs as the incipient radicals they doubtless are.

Any chef worth his salt (or even his pepper) will tell you that the key to fine cuisine is to combine quality ingredients in simple ways to produce superior flavors. If a savory dish requires more than ten ingredients, the chef has likely made a horrible mistake. Indeed, many of the most remarkable dishes I have ever tasted comprised no more than four or five perfectly selected and prepared ingredients.

On occasion, one may appreciate the artistry behind a more involved dish, savoring its complexity in the way one might appreciate the skill of a great conductor binding what could be a cacophonous mix of random instruments into the medium for a transporting symphony. Such dishes are rare, however, and most often my enjoyment of them is little more than an abstract appreciation of a well-done display of culinary skill.

Far better to eat a simple dish, with a few players interacting directly and clearly. Food should be like fine chamber music, with each ingredient acting as a perfectly-tuned instrument , and the flavors harmonizing with each other in the way that skilled musicians interact in a small, tightly-knit ensemble.

"Yes, but what does all of this have to do with dessert?" You ask, as you never seem to learn not to interrupt me. I was just getting to that, so cease with the endless impatient badgering!

The lesson of simplicity is one that seems to have been lost on most pastry chefs. Indeed, the more skilled the pastry chef, the less likely it is that the chef will trust in a few simple ingredients.

The primary reason for this lamentable situation is that many of the key ingredients in desserts are profoundly simple, and do not vary greatly in flavor so long as they are reasonably fresh, particularly after they have been baked into a dessert. I could, for example, easily identify a fresh, free range organic fried egg next to its month-old factory-raised counterpart, but I would be hard pressed to distinguish them if they were baked into cakes.

Also, the core ingredients of most desserts provide excellent opportunities for varying texture, but less opportunity for varying flavor. That is not to say that one cannot vary flavors significantly even with simple and similar ingredients , as anyone who has tasted both flan and crème brûlée could tell you. Eggs and sugar are incredibly versatile ingredients, especially when combined in various ways with cream, butter, milk, and flour.

However, there are limits to the variety one can achieve with just these few ingredients, and so in order to create desserts, one must look to other elements. Spices and flavoring are vital, and this is where pastry chefs begin to go astray.

Perhaps the most important flavoring in desserts in vanilla. There are some ignorant fools among you who will doubtless argue that chocolate is more important than vanilla. To you I say, shut your cake hole and heed my words, and I may yet raise you up from your benighted nescience.

Vanilla is to sweets as salt is to main courses. A dish flavored strongly with vanilla can be enjoyed for that reason, but most, if not all, sweet dishes benefit greatly from the addition of vanilla regardless of their primary components.

Chocolate, while a truly outstanding ingredient and one of my favorites, is a very strong, dominant flavor. It does not blend easily with other flavors, but instead insists that the entire dish be constructed to blend with it.

Vanilla, however, subtly enhances other flavors, including chocolate. Indeed, I have known several poor misguided souls who will not eat anything containing chocolate, but I have never encountered anyone who will not eat something that contains vanilla.

I have, of course, met those who say that they hate vanilla, but they are liars or self-deluded. What they mean when they say they hate vanilla is that they hate the idea of vanilla. They feel it is boring, uninteresting. It is even possible that to their pathetically underdeveloped palates it is boring.

Far more likely, though, they have never really tasted proper vanilla, having instead consumed execrable "French Vanilla" ice cream made from artificial vanilla flavoring and doubtless padded with sorghum or some other vile filler. Should anyone discover the name of the marketing homunculus who affixed the appellation "French" to this monstrosity, kindly tell me where they are buried so that I may spit upon their grave... And please do this even if they happen to be living at the time you discover their identity. I find it quite a nuisance to have to bury people before spitting on their graves, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance.

But I digress.

Vanilla, chocolate, nuts, spices, fruits; all these and more may be combined in various ways to create an enormous variety of flavors and textures. In the complex variety of dessert, however, there lies a trap, and it is one that is far more likely to ensnare the expert than the amateur.

Many excellent desserts are in fact created flavors, arising from the subtle mix of spices, extracts and oils to create a new, unified taste. Indeed, most chocolate is not, in fact, simply chocolate, but rather contains a range of subtle ingredients that differentiate the products of one chocolatier from those of another.

A skilled pastry chef knows this, and will seek to create ever more complex new flavors. This quest for new flavors can be a wonderful thing when it results in dishes that build on the strong flavors of the main ingredients, enhancing and complementing them to create ever more intense and varied experiences. Indeed, bringing out the strong flavors of chocolate, nuts, or fruits is not terribly difficult, and most amateurs can create quite tasty desserts at home.

Given that most anyone can in theory produce a dessert that is worth eating, pastry chefs will be tempted to differentiate themselves by abusing their culinary skills to produce subtle, controlled flavors. When they inevitably succumb to this temptation, all is lost.

The beauty of their perfectly-textured puff pastries, delightfully rich éclairs, earthy chocolate tortes, and seductive fruit tarts becomes lost as these formerly great chefs embark upon their misguided quests to make a pear taste less like a pear, or to introduce yet another subtle gradation of caramelization to the woefully inadequate sugar in something that now only vaguely resembles ice cream, or to add orange oil to a chocolate chip cookie to give it a subtler flavor.

Dessert is not about subtlety. It is not about control. Dessert is the very epitome of excess. When I bite into a chocolate chip cookie, I do not want to detect a subtle hint of orange oil neutralizing the lingering aftertaste of the chocolate chips. I want the chocolate aftertaste, you microcephalic dolt! If I wanted something frou-frous and controlled, I wouldn't be eating a damned chocolate chip cookie!

Dessert is where we seek an intense, climactic experience to bring an evening of dining to an ecstatic close. It is the time when the chef should stop teasing, stop testing, stop leading us into little-visited culinary corners and side streets, and should instead finally deliver true, intense, uncompromising flavors perfectly combined to bring us to complete, exhausted satiation.

And what is the idea behind putting green tea into everything? Yes, it is a subtle, complex flavor that can enhance some dishes, but come on, enough with the green tea ice cream and such. I have even encountered green tea tiramisu, for Brillat-Savarin's sake!

What the hell are you people thinking?

Each ingredient in a dessert dish should enhance or complement the other ingredients. No ingredient should be included solely to control or minimize the other flavors. Nor should ingredients be there to prove how clever you erroneously think you are, or to what absurd extremes you are willing to follow the latest food trends.

Each time I see a great pastry chef begin to produce these overly-controlled monstrosities, a small part of me dies, and a somewhat larger part of me develops the urge to find a large, blunt instrument and apply it repeatedly to his or her head until I manage to kill whatever deformed knot of brain cells is responsible for this aberration, while hopefully preserving the part that made them great in the first place... Impossible, I know, but euthanasia is certainly a valid option to consider in these cases, as well.

Perhaps it would be even better to surgically implant electrodes in the genitals of these chefs, and give diners the ability to remotely send negative feedback (and perhaps positive feedback, but I am not too concerned on that point) concerning the food using some kind of remote control. This kind of operant conditioning approach might produce better quality pastry.

Indeed, it might be good to apply the technique to chefs in general. I'd certainly enjoy giving a sustained jolt to the next chef who attempts to serve me undercooked chicken, overcooked duck, or architectural polenta.

I confess this idea may be impractical, but something must be done. We must all strive together to persuade our pastry chefs that it is possible to be great simply by executing a classic perfectly. They must learn that dessert is not the time for abstract appreciation of a chef's skills. It is a time to be transported by pure, raw, uncontrolled flavors assembled with care and beauty by a great master.

And if persuasion doesn't work, we can always fall back on the blunt instruments and electrodes.

- Ram

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Raisins: Little Nuggets of Condensed Sunshine, or Hideous Mummified Grapes?

Few ingredients in the world of food are as controversial as raisins. There are those (I refer to them as "simpleminded cretins") who believe that raisins enhance any dish, and others (I call them "misguided fools") who believe that raisins have no place in the world outside of a child's lunchbox.

Most of us (and I am doing you the great courtesy of considering you one of "us", so don't blow it) quite correctly believe the truth to be somewhere between the two extremes. There are many dishes where raisins can (but far too often do not) enhance the flavor, and there are other dishes where their inclusion should result in dire punishment for the (simpleminded) cretins responsible.

Sadly, public flagellation has become unpopular in recent years (and ritual disembowelment is actually illegal, no matter how deserved), so we cannot treat the creators of such dishes in the way that seems most appropriate. Also, some would argue that it is not appropriate to punish the mentally inferior for their weakness, and this may perhaps be a valid point of view. I will therefore attempt to educate these miscreants as to the proper use, and more importantly the proper omission, of raisins.

The first thing to remember with regard to raisins is that they are, like all dried fruits, fundamentally a textural ingredient. If you are contemplating including raisins in a dish for textural reasons, please first take a moment to think of the many other dried fruits with with similar sweet and chewy characteristics.

I have a certain fondness for dried cranberries myself, or the Persian zereshk. Zereshk translates as "barberry" (berberis vulgaris, to be precise), but since I doubt you would ever have encountered zereshk outside the context of Persian cuisine, it seems rather silly of you to insist on the English name, so why am I bothering explaining it to you? Sometimes my magnanimity does get a tad excessive. I shall endeavor not to digress further.

Regardless, the primary reason I mention these particular alternatives is that each adds a certain tartness that raisins lack (one which is normally counteracted by sugar), and most dishes in which a rational person might briefly consider incorporating raisins could benefit from the bright notes afforded by these alternatives. If you feel the tartness would clash with other flavors, or are looking for a less complex sweetness, consider dried apricots, figs, or perhaps chopped dates. You might even consider albaloo (a Persian dried sour cherry), though that ingredient must be handled carefully in order to avoid some of the same pitfalls as those exhibited by raisins.

Another excellent alternative if you really want the flavor of raisins is the currant. Most people encounter currants only in the form of jam, and that is a pity. The currant has most of the pleasant flavor characteristics of a raisin, with few of its drawbacks. If you can find some, try them, and you may be pleasantly surprised.

If you have considered these and other alternatives but are nonetheless foolishly determined to use raisins, it is time to remember what I said about raisins being a textural element. Their primary quality that raisins can contribute to a dish is their chewiness. At their best, raisins provide a concentrated note of sweetness that will linger after lesser flavors have faded away.

However, "lingering" and "concentrated" are the critical words here. Most dishes do not benefit from these qualities, and even for those dishes that might benefit, you are gambling on the diner's tastes as to whether they'll agree with you on that score. The absolute worst mistake you can make, though, is to attempt to mitigate either of these two properties.

I said that the primary reason I recommended an alternative ingredient was to improve the flavor. The second, and only slightly less important, reason is that raisins have an annoying tendency to partially rehydrate.

Raisins will absorb some of any liquid to which they are exposed, and some idiots (or rather cretins, to remain consistent) use this fact to attempt to reduce the concentration of the flavor and make it less intrusive. I have encountered this practice most often in execrable attempts at curries (often in conjunction with large chunks of celery and other related atrocities).

Whilst soaking a raisin does in fact achieve that purpose, it also causes the raisins to transform into objects that resemble nothing so much as spoiled grapes. Or perhaps the eyeballs of some sort of large rodent. Regardless, the result is not something any sane individual would want to eat. This effect arises from the fact that the outside of a raisin is a tough, intact grape skin which can hold in a fair amount of liquid.

You may be tempted to cut the raisins to avoid this trap. This approach will, in fact, prevent the rodent eyeball effect. However, it will also cause the raisin to disintegrate. Kindly restrain yourself from this course.

"So, when is it appropriate to use raisins, then? Have they no 'raisin d'être'?" You ask.

I was just about to tell you, you impatient twit! Stop interrupting. And no more of those insipid puns, or I shall be forced to remove your tongue with a lemon zester (a laborious process, but one whose results are usually quite satisfactory).

I fear that I would have to say that it is almost never appropriate to use raisins when cooking for others. I have, however, found a few dishes where the use of properly-handled raisins can be appreciated by most people.

The best known case is the oatmeal raisin cookie. Indeed, I consider raisins to be mandatory for oatmeal cookies, and their omission will earn my enduring, implacable hatred. Actually, "implacable" is perhaps an overstatement. A few tins of Osetra and 100 grams of white Italian truffles might induce my forgiveness. Nonetheless, oatmeal cookies without raisins are simply bland, flattened lumps of undifferentiated grain and flour, and are suitable only for feeding to livestock.

If your dough is low in moisture, the raisins will remain chewy, as they should. Simply avoid overcooking the things (exposed raisins will burn before the dough would) and avoid excess liquid in your batter, and all should be well. Assuming, of course, that you know how to make otherwise edible oatmeal cookies.

Simply remember that excessive moisture, flour and leavening are the enemies of quality oatmeal cookies, and even you should be able to produce something that will not result in me leading an angry mob to your abode. If it helps, think of them as oatmeal-raisin candy with a bit of flour added, and you should not be far off the mark.

The only savory dish I have found in which raisins consistently work well would have to be adas polo (and its various Mediterranean variants). This delightful Persian dish is made with lentils, caramelized onions, spices, and raisins mixed in with a light-grained, salted and buttered basmati rice. The key is that the raisins must be added only at the very end, after the lentils have been cooked (and have therefore absorbed most of the moisture). This allows the raisins to become warm and very slightly soft, while still retaining their basic texture and intensity.

To be sure, there are some other raisin-containing dishes that I have enjoyed. In each case, the chef was able to alter the texture of the raisins to subtly blend with the surrounding ingredients in ways most of us could only dream of. My hat is off to them, as yours should be, but do not make the mistake of attempting to imitate them.

I recommend Adas Polo and oatmeal raisin cookies as examples of the viable use of raisins in ways that are achievable by mere mortals. You will note, presuming of course that your powers of observation are up to such abstract tasks, that these dishes both feature raisins prominently. The very name of the oatmeal-raisin cookie tells you what to expect, and in well-made adas polo, the raisins achieve supremacy over the lentils by numbers alone.

For all but the most skilled of chefs, to use a theatrical metaphor, raisins can be outstanding as featured performers, but they are terrible bit players. They tromp about the scenery, yelling out at inopportune moments, exhibiting their pathetic, grating need to be the focus of all attention. In the end, they drag out their insignificant deaths with lingering, hackneyed shudderings and absurd, endless gyrations till the audience has no fonder wish than that some fiend should cut a sandbag from the rafters or otherwise move to hasten the demise of these incompetent supernumeraries. As the saying goes, they have to be the stars, for they are not good enough to be in the chorus.

Do you understand me now? Feature the raisins, or leave them out entirely.

Of course, I'm sure some of you (the "misguided fools" I referred to at the beginning) will take issue with some of my suggestions, but I cannot be held responsible for your lack of good taste or your inflated sense of your own skills that might lead you to think you can safely ignore me.

If you are incapable of restraining your appalling urge to spread this plague of desiccated grapes throughout the world, kindly refrain from entering the world of professional food preparation. What you do in the privacy of your home is your own concern, but I do not desire to be subjected to it while I am attempting to eat.

- Ram

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Returning from hiatus

I have been silent for some time now, and no doubt the few readers who might have been faithful have long since gone to more voluble purveyors of food-oriented writing. I make no promises to write more frequently in the future, but for now, I have some things to say, and so I will say them.

My search for quality éclairs seems doomed to failure. Since the time of my great disappointment at Dahlia Bakery I have sampled the weak efforts of the Madison Park Bakery (average choux pastry, slightly too custardy filling, and far too much sugar in the topping, resulting in an almost crunchy layer of chocolate); vaguely tolerable mini-éclairs from several coffee shops that shall remain nameless because they simply buy their pastries from elsewhere; and even Whole Foods supermarket, which I am sad to report appears to have the best éclairs in the Puget Sound area.

That last statement may sound much like praise, but I assure you it is not. No, it is rather further condemnation of all of the other so-called éclairs to be found throughout the city.

In the past months I have sampled exceptional (and some not-so-exceptional) tapas at Tango; experienced fine dining at its best at Mistral; worked far too hard; traveled to Boston, the place of my birth, and back; sampled the cuisine of Vancouver (which appears to be almost entirely devoid of éclairs, whether good or otherwise); and I have witnessed the departure of the great Noah Mellich from Porcella, until recently my favorite spot for a quick but fine meal. I do hope the place manages to recover from his departure, but his food was the soul of the place, and they have much work to do to maintain his standards.

Now I plan to return for a time to my third-greatest passion, that of writing. (For the moment I shall leave it to others to ponder what my two greatest passions might be).

I shall also be migrating the rest of the content from my original site over the next few weeks, as I have decided that I prefer to work in through this interface rather than fighting the evils of forum spammers and web design software on my own.

You will hear more from me soon.

- Ram