“Reach out your arms, as far apart as possible – one high, one low – then just bend your wrist, but do not look!”, instructed the waitress. “Oh, and beginners like you must stand over the barrel,” she added. I followed her advice exactly but still ended up with a soggy shirt-front and damp shoes, wasting half a bottle.

Even though the cider was cheap, learning to pour it like a local wouldn’t be and accepting I could be thirsty for a long while before I acquired the knack, I invited my hostess to demonstrate proper form. Sure enough, her aim was perfect and my glass was soon two inches deep without the loss of a drop. “Now, drink it! Fast!” she cajoled. “Before it goes flat!”

I hadn’t counted on necking shots of cider at lunchtime, and wondered if I was playing the straight guy in a game of haze the foreigner, but as foamy, appley goodness cascaded down my gullet it started to make sense. Then, after taking my order for broiled razor clams and hake in cider, the waitress turned on her heel for the kitchen, leaving my glass empty. Now eager to drink some more, but reluctant to soak myself further, I reached for the bottle. “No lo mueva!” warned a finger-wagging old guy to my left. “She will pour for you when she returns. And, you should leave a drop in the bottom of the glass. It’s good luck.”

Thanking him for his advice, I sat back and looked around the white-washed room from my seat against the wall. Cut-off barrels half-filled with sawdust littered the blue-tiled floor between tables, along with the usual jumble of crumpled napkins, discarded toothpicks and cigarette ends. Through the open window, small gaily-painted fishing boats bobbed up and down, and their creak and bump as they nagged at their moorings offered a pleasant counterpoint to the hoarse cries of seabirds.

Luarca, on the Asturian coast of northern Spain is still a working port and, the tasca where I sat, the place to enjoy the morning’s catch. From the ruddy faces surrounding me, it was entirely possible that my hake had been landed earlier in the day by a fellow diner. The globe is so well traveled these days that it’s virtually impossible to find anywhere you’re the only foreigner, but in this place, during the off-season, I had managed it. In fact, I was the only guest at the only open hotel in town. An anomaly I was quick to appreciate, because it allowed me to slip into the natural rhythms of local life and prompted me to assume the most humble status, that of being nobody at all. Sure, it removed me from many things, but there’s an advantage to that when all you want to absorb is atmosphere – the feeling that five hundred years could pass in this place and the faces wouldn’t change. What Cees Nooteboom described as “the feeling that everything except time has stopped.“

My razor clams arrived, redolent of garlic and spicy with piperade, followed by tender hake with softened apples, their acidity perfectly balancing the sweetness of the reduced cider sauce. A side of fried potatoes appeared as another two inches of cider found its way neatly into my glass. Lazily enjoying it, happy and relaxed, I barely noticed when it was all gone and the waitress returned. “Postre?” she asked. “Hay queso de cabrales, flan, y frutas frescas, o si usted prefiere, un poco de cada uno.” I opted greedily for the latter, along with a nip of orujo, she returned quickly with a little of each – blue cheese, stick to your teeth caramel pudding, and a pear. “Ningunas manzanas?” I smiled. “Haven’t you had enough apples yet?” she joked back.

Chicken in cider is not necessarily a traditional Asturian preparation, though it might as well be, so while this dish is modeled on the hake in cider I had that day, it is cooked for much longer. Asturian cider is produced from small, tart crabapple type fruit that are no good for eating, the juice of which is fermented for up to six months in oak barrels. It typically registers only 5% alcohol, compared to the seven or eight degrees common in French and English ciders and is rarely carbonated, hence the habit of pouring from a great height to aerate, followed by swift consumption before the froth disappears. Spanish ciders can be found in the US, but domestic varieties like Woodchuck are perfectly acceptable for cooking with. The chanterelles were added to balance out the sweetness of the sauce with an earthy, autumnal boskiness and some slices of eating apple dropped in with five minutes to go offered some crunch and acid to what is a very satisfying dish.

I’m not very old, but for much of my youth in the north west of England, it was almost impossible to find fresh foods that weren’t local. Today such a statement seems like an echo of Victorian times, but, literally, that’s how it was until a supermarket was built behind the Knutsford courthouse in the late 80s.

I often tell my wife about the cheese stall at the weekly market only kept five kinds of cheese – Cheshire, Cheddar, Lancashire, and sage Derby were ever present, with perhaps a Wenslydale reasonably common too. If anything as unusual as a Stilton, from distant Nottinghamshire, appeared, it would generate as much commotion among the town’s housewives, who elbowed their way to the front of the queue to catch a glimpse of this highly perfumed foreigner, as if Julio Iglesias showed up sporting his tennis shorts. My wife usually responds that I should count myself lucky because when she was young there were only four kinds of cheese at her local supermarket: white American, yellow American, cheddar and Swiss and had anything else been available it would have been looked upon with extreme suspicion. Touché.

Making our weekly Tuesday rounds of the covered (indoor) market (the outdoor market sold mostly fruit and veg, bric a brac, and live pets, believe it or not) with my mother, on the cheese man’s left was the egg man, or “mister Chookie” as I knew him, on account of his perennial sales pitch “come tek a look at these lover-lee chookie eggs I’ve got for yuh!”. Unlike his fellow stall-holders, whose wares fell within a particular genre, the egg man also sold milk, orange juice and yogurt due to him being one of the younger siblings of the Sheldon family that owned the local dairy, and who, excepting market days, delivered these provisions to the doorsteps of the town’s residents.

Beyond Mr. Chookie was the fish man, Mr. Scales, as my mother used to call him, although at the time her pun was lost on me. Above his stall ran the legend “fresh daily from Fleetwood, Lancs”, referring to the port just north of blackpool where much of Britain’s catch was landed. That his stall was only open Tuesdays and Thursdays didn’t seem to matter. Whether it was due to her upbringing in blackpool where there is – rightfully – a great deal of local snobbery about the quality of the fish that goes into their fish n’chips, or whether because of an innate suspicion of fishmongers, my mother always eyed mr scales’s wares closely, casting a wary eye over his glossy fish, as if trying to discern if there was anything untoward hiding among the cockle-shells. Because we rarely had fish except on Fridays when we weren’t allowed anything else – even in our lunchboxes at school we had to mark the end of the week with evil-smelling “salmon paste” sandwiches – and because mum worked a full day on Thursdays, whatever we bought on Tuesdays had to last on ice in the bottom of the fridge until then (freezing fish made it taste all woolly, she always said), so freshness was absolutely crucial otherwise it/we wouldn’t survive.

Typically, the fish was cod, but often halibut or hake did service in the flaky white fish department. This was usually broiled and served with oven-baked chips, since as a nurse my mother couldn’t countenance deep-frying at home lest it give the townies the impression she was a hypocrite in her dietary exhortations, and homemade mushy peas, flecked with mint and tangy with a splash of malt vinegar. Apart from a distinctly non-traditional and rather dodgy-looking “curry” she made every so often, friday night fish suppers were my dad’s favorite – he still demands it to this day and he is about as agnostic an Anglican as you’ll find.

Instead of waiting for Friday, and going against my mum’s rubric of no-frying, but keeping with the buying of white fish on a Tuesday, we made a version of the Provencal classic, aioli garni, with a pan seared halibut fillet, steamed fennel and butter beans. Rather like much of the cooking I experienced growing up, it doesn’t look like much on the plate – the pale colors and the two sauces lapping against one another may seem bland – but the sharp tang of the garlicky aiolli with the surprising hot peppery-bite of the brown sauce against the muted flavors of the white fish and butter beans makes for an unusually rewarding dish. I am convinced that my mum would’ve enjoyed this dish a great deal, even though she would have asked why we didn’t save it for Friday night. As for my dad, well, sadly, he wouldn’t touch it on account of it humming with garlic. Too bad for him.

I was recently introduced to an Australian with whom I had a number of interesting discussions (that is not meant as a joke). The first, an hour-long discussion of the age-old cricketing rivalry between England and his native land is of no concern here, but the second, a frank exchange of views about the quality of sausages to be found in the United States has rather more relevance to the subject matter of these here web pages. His view, that American sausages simply aren’t up to snuff compared to the quality and variety of those available in Australia – a country in which the mystery bag has achieved almost legendary status for its role in the great Aussie barbecue – is not one I share, even if there were no other examples of fine forcemeat here than the glorious boudin of Louisiana, although, in his defense, he was careful to exclude American-made Italian style sausages from this otherwise careless dismissal.

Two men arguing about the merits of their sausage could be opening line of a grubby joke, but in fact, it’s a highly meaningful topic. Pork sausage, as it’s widely-known, is the world’s greatest food. I can think of no other food stuff which provides a comparable level of variety and satisfaction. The range of flavorings to be added to the basic mixture of pork shoulder and fat is almost limitless and the unctuousness of pork seems to be the perfect canvas for sausage-makers around the world to demonstrate their flair. All of which means that unless one is sufficiently motivated, like my Antipodean chum, to make one’s own sausage from scratch, one can take one’s pick from the myriad sausages available to us these days.

However, if you’re either deliberately bloody-minded or just feel like gilding the lily, you can augment your local sausage-maker’s offerings with flavorings of your own, which is what I did. Taking inspiration, once again, from Maxine Clark’s “Flavors of Tuscany”, I embarked with six fennel-scented Italian “sweet” sausage, adding some hot pepper flakes, a finger-nail or so of sweet pimenton, a pinch each of fennel pollen and black pepper, plus a generous teaspoon of just-cracked fennel seeds to the sausage meat after extracting it from its casings. Between two moistened palms, I rolled myself some micro-meatballs so-seasoned, browned them off in olive oil and paired them with a risotto bianco, garnished generously with fennel seeds, and washed it all down with an unpretentious Chianti.

As a speedy weeknight meal, it had the twin virtues for the ambitious home-cook of being easy and delicious while making me feel like I’d embellished the store-bought ingredients rather more than I had, which together with the great potential for sausage-based school-boy puns almost justifies posting about it.

The largely unknown city of Compiegne, France, has the distinction of being the site of one of Louis XV’s most extravagant homes away from home. Under him, the Chateau de Compiegne became one of three distinctly opulent seats of government alongside Versailles and Fontainbleau. The latter French monarchs were hardly known for their desire to live simply as visitors to either of those other palaces can attest, and Compiegne is no exception, taking more than 35 years to complete with Louis constantly tinkering at the design to aggrandize it to his tastes. When finished it made the perfect departure point for forays into the nearby Forest of Compiegne, ancestral hunting grounds of French royalty, for some bracing sport. However, Louis was not into taking chances on returning with his game bag empty, and it is said that the forest was so well-stocked that a blind marksman could still expect to feast on wild meats.

Of course, it’s well-known that the rest of the French population were not eating in quite such grand style at that time, and it wasn’t until after the revolution and the rise of the bourgeois class that the French institution with which many of us are most familiar came into being, namely, the restaurant. Happily for us, upon visiting Compiegne in early 2010, we found that these days the city is much more egalitarian in its approach and makes abundant gastronomic accommodation for a range of economic classes. Indeed, the night we arrived, we dined somewhat opulently on escargot ravioli and kir royal before joining the sans culottes at the other end of the social spectrum the following evening with a carafe of vin ordinaire to wash down a marvelously flavorful jarret de porc, poached pig’s hock, a humble dish that was almost certainly never prepared for residents of the Chateau. Served with some whipped potatoes together with its poaching broth that would have been almost as good without the hock itself, le jarret was juicy, incredibly rich and porky, and meltingly tender.

The porcine counterpart to the famed veal osso buco of Milan, the hock is the lower portion of the animal’s shin bone ending just above the trotter, and is consequently tough and full of connective tissues. As with all such parts of the beast, slow cooking is necessary to get the best out of it, and in the case of the hock, poaching tenderizes it perfectly, but ignores the magic of the skin and underlying fat, comparable with the cheeks in terms of porky flavor. To solve this problem, and improve upon the jarret of Compiegne, we roasted it in a hot oven that performed three special functions: 1) it rendered out some of the fat, 2) crisped the skin into some amazing crackling, and 3) transformed the connective tissue into sticky, almost sweet, gelatin. We then deglazed the roasting pan with some of the strained poaching liquid and reduced the mixture into an almost clear gravy, that combined with a squeeze or two of lemon juice to cut the richness, came together on its own with the pig gelatin.

Unfortunately, and this is why we took until the start of fall 2011 to make this dish, unsmoked pork hocks are rather difficult hard to obtain in America even from reputable butchers where their smoked counterparts are ever present, and it was only last week that we managed to get our hands on some, in, of all places, a regular suburban supermarket. Our freezer is now half-filled with pork hocks which will be dropped into Sunday gravy in the near future, and may well also feature in a special attempt at home-making aspic jelly should we run out of inspiration or suffer from pork overload in the interim. We would encourage you to seek out this humble cut of meat too, you won’t be dining royally but it might help you feel wealthy when you check your bank balance.

If the immense diversity of this city reveals itself in the faces of its people, and if, in turn, those faces can be said to reflect the myriad flavors of this world, then how should one interpret the wearing of “beats by dr dre” headphones by anyone north of 25 years old? With this eternal question in mind, I urge you to consider another conundrum for the ages, which may still puzzle some Hindu theologians: how to take enticing food photography of Indian food with its range of brownish-hued sauces? As we know only too well, appearances are crucial in the food world.

Since the majority of Hindus swear off most meats, dairy and legumes (pulses) are essential proteins for the citizens of the sub-continent, and paneer, a firm, fresh cheese, is an important component of that diet. Paneer – which comes in a variety of styles in India, from super firm to an almost goat-cheese consistency, but is mostly limited to the former in our hemisphere – is something of a strange beast in that it neither melts nor competes for flavor with even the mildest of curries. Also, due to being typically coagulated with lemon juice or vinegar rather than rennet, it somehow manages to be wholly acceptable to vegetarians too.

A perennial, and, likely fruitless, desire to be good food bloggers but also possess the waistlines of triathletes, lately convinced us to expand our palates beyond our customary choices – lamb rogan josh and chicken bhuna – and include a vegetarian option and recipe on these here interwebs. Hardly groundbreaking, we know, but every day is a journey through the world, as described in a previous post, and another recent stop was Patel Brother’s grocery store at the far end of Brooklyn’s Sunset Park neighborhood.

Picking up fresh curry leaves, house-ground spices and a fat block of paneer at Patel’s, we ransacked the springtime growth of our tiny garden for English peas and threw together a matar (pea) aloo (potato) paneer curry with some cumin-seed scented basmati rice and some of the best heat ‘em up at home naan bread we’ve had.

Satisfyingly protein-packed and redolent of sub-continental flavors with the curry leaves and toasted spices, it came together in no-time flat. If you have access to good Indian supplies, this can quite easily become part of your weeknight repertoire and, even if you don’t, non-melting mild cheeses (like halloumi) are readily available and good peas are only a freezer section away.

Of course, Dr Dre headphones are almost certainly perfect for listening to all kinds of music, including hip-hop, but when sported by middle-aged business men one can’t help but assume they were borrowed from teenage offspring (who would surely pour merciless scorn on them for it), as which person of that demographic, in our image-conscious world, would risk public approbation and actually buy them? Taking a similar risk with crumby photos of this yellowish-brown dish we humbly request that you overlook appearances and trust us enough to try it.

]]> http://www.weareneverfull.com/cheese-pea-curry-why-paneer-ances-dont-matar/feed/ 13 http://www.weareneverfull.com/gallic-gastro-classic-chicken-in-tarragon-cream-sauce/ http://www.weareneverfull.com/gallic-gastro-classic-chicken-in-tarragon-cream-sauce/#comments Fri, 13 May 2011 00:05:05 +0000 Jonny http://www.weareneverfull.com/?p=2211

Classic French cooking doesn’t get much more classic than chicken in tarragon cream sauce. This bistro menu stalwart has all the unctious elements you instinctively associate with Gallic gastronomy: butter, cream, wine and mild herbs. Likely originating in that blessed triangle just north of Lyon where the famous blue-footed chickens of Bresse neighbor the Cotes de Beaune wine region and abut the renowned mustard-producing region of Dijon, this dish can also be given a Norman twist simply by substituting the white wine for a dry cider.

Loosely based on a recipe I read here, but one that I’ve made countless times, we enjoyed this one with our friends Matt and Joanna this past weekend. There’s something about French classics that almost guarantees happiness among your dinner party guests. It’s as if the way we live today and nervousness about cream and butter rules out eating this kind of food in the home, but that when they do appear together some kind of Pavlovian, slightly hysterical, response is provoked that results in over-indulgence and an ability to somehow accommodate a four-course meal, including cheese, multiple bottles of wine, and after dinner drinks.

Happily, this dish is so easy to prepare and faultlessly scalable to the number you’re catering for that it’s as perfect for a dinner party as it is for a casual weeknight meal when you’re feeling in need of a little self-soothing. You can make it ahead and warm it for service or make it while your guests swarm around you in the kitchen soaking up the hum of the garlic. Serve with roasted, mashed or boiled potatoes, or just with a crusty baguette to wipe your plates of all the creamy, buttery goodness.

Chicken in Tarragon Cream Sauce with Pink Peppercorns (serves 4)

Ingredients:

• 1 medium chicken, preferably organic, either already butchered or by your own hands into primal cuts: legs, wings, and breasts.
• 1pint light cream
• 1/2lb button mushrooms
• 2 large shallots, finely diced
• 6 cloves garlic, finely sliced
• 1 small glass, dry white wine
• 2-3 large sprigs tarragon
• 1 teaspoon pink peppercorns
• 4 tablespoons unsalted butter
• Salt and white pepper to taste.

Recipe:

1. In a large deep pot, melt 1/2 butter over medium heat, and brown chicken pieces in batches until golden all over.
2. Remove browned chicken pieces and reserve, before adding chopped shallots and garlic.
3. Saute until wilted and pungent, remove and reserve.
4. Add 1 more tablespoon of butter before sauteing mushrooms for 4-6 minutes.
5. When mushrooms are done remove and reserve, then return shallots, garlic and chicken to the pot, and turn heat to high.
6. When pot is sizzling noisily, deglaze pot with white wine, and allow to reduce by half.
7. Reduce heat to low, stir well, and pour in cream.
8. Add tarragon sprigs, cover and simmer very gently for 20 minutes.
9. After 20 minutes, remove lid, and remove tarragon sprigs and discard.
10. With tongs, pull out chicken and reserve in same place as mushrooms.
11. Pour sauce through a fine meshed sieve, and push garlic and shallot pieces against mesh with back of a ladle.
12. Return sauce, chicken and mushrooms to pot. Taste and correct seasoning.
13. Sprinkle in pink peppercorns and serve.

]]> http://www.weareneverfull.com/gallic-gastro-classic-chicken-in-tarragon-cream-sauce/feed/ 7 http://www.weareneverfull.com/want-fusion-cuisine-try-guyanese-chow-mein/ http://www.weareneverfull.com/want-fusion-cuisine-try-guyanese-chow-mein/#comments Tue, 19 Apr 2011 01:29:52 +0000 Jonny http://www.weareneverfull.com/?p=2123

Guyana, sitting on the top right of the land mass of South America, is among the least known and most mysterious of that continent’s countries, something that is almost as true today as it was when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used it as the setting for his 1904 novel, The Lost World. Home to the most intact and least spoiled rain forests in South America, Guyana’s biodiversity is simultaneously staggering and largely undocumented, and cascading from its mossy, permanently cloud-topped peaks, fall several of the world’s largest waterfalls. Guyana is also unique on a human-scale, having the distinction of being the only English-speaking nation in South America, and, perhaps because of this, of having been among the world’s largest producers of natural latex for the manufacture of cricket balls

The cricket-loving population is a heterogenous mix of Indian, African, European and native peoples, roughly in that order of volume. However, like much of the English-speaking Caribbean, Guyana also has a tiny, but significant, Cantonese population — a legacy of the same forces at work during the days of the British Empire that also relocated large numbers of Tamil and Gujurati Indians there to work as indentured plantation workers. Numerically insignificant, the lasting impact of these Hong Kong Chinese has been on local commerce and the cementing of certain southern Chinese dishes, the most popular of which is chow mein, in the diverse local cuisine.

Of course, the chow mein enjoyed in Guyana bears only a certain resemblance to that eaten in Canton and other parts of China, I am sure. Indeed, Chinese food all over the western world has been amended to suit local tastes and ingredients, and so it is in Guyana where access to even basic Chinese staples like soy sauce was not always possible. Similarly, the inevitable mixing between local gastronomic cultures, namely the addition of a sly pinch of West Indian curry powder that seems to find its way into all kinds of unlikely dishes across the Caribbean, is what makes this chow mein recipe inherently Guyanese, not to mention the bright yellow noodles, made with soft wheat and plenty of food coloring. Other local variations on the original include the addition of yellow squash and green beans.

We had never eaten this dish before, but we’d experienced it up-close at several West Indian parades both in New York City and London, where it was served in trays with plastic forks as street food, and where the searing perfume of garlic and curry managed to cut right through the ripe fragrance of perspiring dancers. In truth, the flavors, with the combination of curry and soy sauce, aren’t that dissimilar to the popular Singapore noodles found throughout South-East Asia and at many British Chinese restaurants, and they should feel relatively familiar to anyone who has eaten both Chinese and Indian take-out food before. So, while you (or we) may never get to visit exotic Guyana and witness first hand either it’s beautiful landscape or delicious cuisine, you should try making this dish. It only takes about twenty minutes to prepare and will satisfy a host of your ethnic food cravings.

For more authentic Caribbean recipes, check out Cynthia at Tastes Like Home.

Guyanese Chow Mein (serves 3-4)

Ingredients

• 1 x 12oz package of Guyanese chow mein noodles
• 1/2lb thinly sliced beef, chicken or whole medium shrimp
• 3 cloves garlic, finely sliced
• 1/2 onion sliced thinly
• 1/2 sweet bell pepper, sliced
• 1 hot pepper, warri-warri or similar medium-hot type, seeds removed, finely diced
• 1/2 teaspoon Caribbean curry powder (not strictly traditional, but a delicious addition)
• 2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
• 2 eggs, whisked
• 2-3 spring onions (eschallots), cut into 1 inch batons
• (optional, but traditional) butternut or other firm bright fleshed squash
• (optional, but traditional) green peas or long beans
• 2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil.
• 1 tablespoon water mixed with 1/2 teaspoon corn starch

Recipe

1. Boil noodles in abundant salted water for 6 minutes or until fully cooked
2. Heat wok to high, add half oil and cook whisked eggs, chopping them with spatula until fully cooked
3. Remove from wok and reserve.
4. Add remaining oil, and after 5 seconds, add bell peppers.
5. Cook on high heat stirring regularly for 2 minutes until they start to wilt a little.
6. Add onions, garlic and hot pepper and cook for another minute before adding meat/poultry/shrimp
7. Cook meat until done before adding soy sauce, sprinkling on curry powder and 1 tablespoon of water mixed with corn starch.
8. Stir well before quickly adding reserved noodles, peas and spring onions.
9. Continue to stir until all noodles are well coated with sauce.
10. Serve immediately.

]]> http://www.weareneverfull.com/want-fusion-cuisine-try-guyanese-chow-mein/feed/ 15 http://www.weareneverfull.com/pasta-con-le-sarde-sicily-on-a-plate/ http://www.weareneverfull.com/pasta-con-le-sarde-sicily-on-a-plate/#comments Tue, 05 Apr 2011 14:20:26 +0000 Jonny & Amy http://www.weareneverfull.com/?p=2096

Greeks, Romans, Moors, Normans, Spaniards, Garibaldi and his thousand, and finally hordes of tourists have visited Sicily over the milennia. Some stayed for centuries, some only for generations, but even those whose sojourn was comparatively brief played a role in the island’s blending of cultures and traditions.

If this human concoction can be distilled into a single dish, it might be pasta con le sarde. A strikingly simple plate of spaghetti, fennel, onions, and sardines garnished with golden raisins (sultanas) and pine nuts, but its layers of flavor and texture speak of Sicily’s multifarious heritage. Grapes, introduced by the Greeks in the 7th century BC, combining with the tradition of using dried fruit in savory dishes adopted from the Moors, the abundant use of saffron borrowed from the Spanish Bourbon monarchy, and the native reliance on cheap and readily-available ingredients of the highest quality in the onions, foraged wild fennel, pine nuts and the island’s golden olive oil.

And, just like the variegated Sicilian identity, the disagreements over what constitutes a real pasta con le sarde are multihued. Some prefer a thicker long pasta like perciatelli or bucatini over spaghetti, some add breadcrumbs, some refuse to add anchovies, others only saute half the sardines with the sauce, breaking the other half into mix after the pasta has been added to the pan, and yet others would crumble almonds over the assembled dish and bake it in a moderate oven for 20 minutes. The biggest philosophical difference though, lies in the presence of tomato paste. Palermitano’s typically leave it out altogether, whereas cooks further west and south in Trappani, Marsala and, particularly Agrigento, would claim it as an essential ingredient.

Ever the diplomats, we (probably to the aggravation of native Sicilians) chose the middle ground, and elected to use anchovies and bucatini, leave out the tomato paste, cook all the sardines in the sauce, and add both breadcrumbs and broken almonds, but we chose not to bake it. It was wonderful: crunchy, salty and sweet, and with a profound maritime flavor overlaid perfectly by the fennel.

Those of you with an aversion to small oily fish should probably avoid this dish completely for substitutions of whiter, milder species cannot be recommended, unless even greater Sicilian wrath is desired. And, if encouragement to try something different is needed, look no further than the twin factors of wholesomeness and economy. Sardines and pasta are still very affordable, and, for us, halfway through a month-long meatless regimen ahead of a warm weather vacation, it checked all the taste and healthful boxes.

It also checked the seasonal box, for, strictly-speaking, this dish should only be eaten between March and September when wild fennel can be found extending its spidery fronds all over the island’s uplands. For those of us without wild ingredients to hand, or such a favorable climate, cultivated fennel plus a scant 1/4 teaspoon of ground fennel seeds (or a smaller quantity of fennel pollen), provide a similar perfume.

Please note that one should always use the freshest possible sardines, and not just for this recipe. The oilier the fish, the shorter the shelf life – hence why anchovies are so often salted and in oil – and the general rule of thumb is 8-12 hours out of water is about as long as it takes for sardines to go from glorious to gory mess. You can certainly freeze them too, but like most fish, especially small ones, the defrosting process has to be slow and delicate to prevent them from getting mushy.

Pasta con le Sarde (Long pasta with sardines) (serves 4)

Ingredients

• 1lb (1/2 kilo) dried long pasta (spaghetti, bucatini, perciatelli)
• 1 fennel bulb, tops removed and reserved, sliced wafer thin
• 1 medium yellow onion, sliced thinly
• 3-4 cloves garlic, finely sliced.
• 4-6 medium sardines (1lb / 1/2 kilo), cleaned and boned
• handful golden raisins (sultanas)
• handful pine nuts (pignoli)
• 1 small glass dry white wine
• 2 handfuls day-old bread crumbs
• 1 handful roughly chopped almonds
• 3 salted anchovies
• 1 pinch saffron
• freshly ground black pepper
• sea salt to taste
• good quality olive oil
• chopped flat leaf parsley (optional)

Recipe:

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil
2. In a saute pan, bring 3 tablespoons of olive oil to medium heat
3. Saute onions, garlic and fennel (not including reserved tops) until softened.
4. Add sardines and anchovies, stir to break up anchovies.
5. Turn heat to high and after 30 seconds add white wine and saffron.
6. Stir again, reduce heat to low after 1 minute. Cover for 5 minutes and allow to steam.
7. Add pasta to large pot of salted water.
8. Remove of saute pan lid, stir sardines so fish starts to flake and fall apart into the sauce.
9. Add golden raisins and pine nuts. Taste for seasoning, correct accordingly.
10. When pasta is done – around 7 minutes – scoop a ladle of pasta water into sardine sauce before draining pasta and adding it to saute pan.
11. Stir pasta well to coat with sauce. Allow to cook for another minute
12. Kill heat, and sprinkle in breadcrumbs, chopped almonds, fennel tops and chopped parsley (optional).
13. Stir well and serve with a chilled glass of the same wine.

*Credit should be given to Ferdinando’s Focacceria for inspiring us to cook this dish.

]]> http://www.weareneverfull.com/pasta-con-le-sarde-sicily-on-a-plate/feed/ 18 http://www.weareneverfull.com/fabada-asturiana-the-dish-that-changed-history/ http://www.weareneverfull.com/fabada-asturiana-the-dish-that-changed-history/#comments Fri, 11 Mar 2011 17:43:11 +0000 Jonny & Amy http://www.weareneverfull.com/?p=2020

Almost seven years ago I journeyed from Santillana del Mar to Santa Maria de Lebaña via San Vicente de la Barquera. So many saints, so much devotion, that it was little surprise to learn that beyond the monastery of Santo Toribio de Liébana and through the Picos de Europe lies the hallowed ground of Covadonga.

It was at the battle of Covadonga in 718 that Christian Spain under Pelayo, King of Asturias, began the reclamation of Iberia from the Muslim Moors. Nestled deep within the Asturian mountains, Covadonga is as important to the Spanish national myth as Hastings is to the British or Lexington to Americans. However, history defies such over-simplification – the linear narrative of one thing followed by another – and it is too easy to say that simply because certain events turned out the way they did there were no other possibilities. Indeed, a sentence stating that the defeat of a Moorish army by a Spanish king at Covadonga began the reconquest of Spain – which culminated in Ferdinand and Isabella vanquishing Boabdil, Emir of Granada, in 1492 – encompasses more than 700 years and glosses over seven whole centuries of war, shifting borders, switching alliances, inter-marriage, suffering and grief.

It is with this in mind that I wonder if it’s an exaggeration to suggest that had the battle at Covadonga ended differently the whole course of western history, and therefore of the world, would have been affected. Spanish historian Claudio Sanchez-Albornoz does not believe so. “Si los musulmanos no hubiesen conquistado el España en el siglo VIII, los españoles no habrian conquistado America en el XVI.”* For him it follows that what began there in the 8th Century resulted in a militarized and battle-hardened Spain conquering much of the New World.

For me, and my own personal sense of history those seven years ago, a dinner of beans, pork belly, chorizo and morcilla suggested just as plausible a theorem: that had not the Asturian armies under Pelayo feasted on fabada in preparation for the fight the next day, there may have been another outcome. And while personal experience suggests that after a hearty meal of this kind one is utterly disinclined to remaining awake, let alone to feeling lively enough to bum rush a horde of scimitar-brandishing Berbers, I still feel that this notion has validity. After all, how could one’s sense of local patriotism and desire to defend one’s homeland fail to be stirred by such a dish? That the culinary use of saffron arrived in the far north of Spain via these same Moorish invaders and the integral ingredient smoked pimentón wasn’t to be discovered for another eight centuries following the conquest of Mexico doesn’t disprove this hypothesis, rather it merely serves to highlight, once again, the non-linear path of history.

Fabada (Asturian bean and sausage stew) (serves 2-4)

Ingredients:

• 1/2lb dried large white beans
• 1 head garlic, outer paper removed but still whole
• 1 large onion, peeled but whole
• 1 Spanish chorizo
• 1 morcilla
• 1/2 lb pork belly or slab bacon
• 1 teaspoon smoked Spanish paprika
• 1 pinch Spanish saffron
• 1 quart low sodium chicken stock

Recipe:

1. Soak beans overnight or for at least 12 hours in abundant cold water.
2. Put drained rehydrated beans in a large pot with the chicken stock, pork belly, chorizo and morcilla.
3. Bring to a boil and skim any white scum that rises to the surface.
4. Add garlic, onion, pimenton and saffron and reduce heat to a simmer.
5. Simmer gently for two hours adding more water if beans begin to dry out.
6. After two hours, remove meats and reserve, and remove onion and garlic and discard.
7. Kill heat, replace lid and allow to stew for one hour.
8. Bring stew back to a boil and reduce liquid (if necessary) so that stew thickens but isn’t gloopy.
9. Slice meats into serving portions and allow to reheat in hot stew before serving.
10. Serve with Spanish hard cider or any roughish table wine.

(If the Muslims had not conquered Spain in the 8th century, the Americas wouldn’t have been conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th.”)

]]> http://www.weareneverfull.com/fabada-asturiana-the-dish-that-changed-history/feed/ 12 http://www.weareneverfull.com/foie-gras-stuffed-ravioli-moments-of-luxury/ http://www.weareneverfull.com/foie-gras-stuffed-ravioli-moments-of-luxury/#comments Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:05:50 +0000 Amy and Jonny http://www.weareneverfull.com/?p=1938

There’s a show on public television here in America called “Moment of Luxury” in which the host very generously enjoys all manner of fine things on our behalf and then shares his collected pensees about the experience. Traveling around the food blogosphere lately has felt like a surprisingly similar experience for us since our three month old prevents us from experiencing any luxury ourselves.

Tough titty, I hear you cry. Fair enough, we have lived rather high on the hog these last several years and have been blessed with several unforgettable moments of luxury along the way, but like the princess and the pea, we are finding our current rather straightened circumstances somewhat uncomfortable.

Turning over a new (year’s) leaf, determined to gripe no longer and return to being active participants in our (gastronomic) lives, we had a deuce of a time this past weekend putting together some foie gras and wild mushroom ravioli, in the hope we would be able to enjoy at least one or two moments of luxury. Inspired by ZenChef’s oxtail and foie gras ravioli and our experience eating escargot-stuffed ravioli in France (both) around this time last year (when we bought the can of foie gras we used), we took a brief flight of fancy in the accompanying sauce, combining porcini stock, balsamic vinegar and red currants into a sort of impromptu agrodolce. Some dry roasted wild mushrooms completed this, quite frankly, sublime dish.

Savoring these rich and blissful parcels certainly felt like a moment of luxury. Indeed, when we were roused moments later from this temporary reverie by infantile caterwails echoing from the nursery, these few seconds of pleasure were all the more significant providing much-needed encouragement for us to gird our loins once more for our nightly skirmishes with our darling offspring.

Foie Gras, Pate and Wild Mushroom Ravioli with Red Currant Balsamic Gastrique

Ingredients for the Ravioli:

• 1lb fresh egg pasta, rolled into sheets
• 4oz foie gras
• 4oz duck, rabbit and pork pate
• 3oz wild mushrooms, finely chopped
• 5 cloves garlic, minced
• 2 tablespoons muscat (dessert) wine
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• Salt and black pepper to taste

Ingredients for the Sauce:

• 2 cups porcini stock
• 3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
• 1 handful red currants
• 1 large pinch granulated sugar
• 1 pinch salt
• 2oz unsalted butter

Ravioli Recipe:

1. In a saute pan, melt butter and gently saute mushrooms for five minutes.
2. Add garlic and cook for another 2-3 minutes.
3. Turn heat to high and when pan is really hot, add muscat wine. Allow to evaporate almost completely.
4. Remove from heat, and refrigerate mixture until completely cooled.
5. In a mixing bowl, combine mushroom mixture with foie gras and pate. Taste and season with salt and black pepper.
6. Fill ravioli with 1 tablespoon of foie gras and mushroom mixture, and seal carefully.
7. In abundant salted boiling water cook ravioli for about a minute or until they start to float.
8. Dress with sauce and serve immediately with roasted mushrooms.

Recipe for the sauce:

1. In a saucepan over medium heat, reduce porcini stock with balsamic vinegar and red currants by half.
2. Stir in sugar and crush red currants.
3. Strain sauce and return to pan. Stir in butter.
4. Taste and correct seasoning.

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