I have a husband who won’t eat fish. This is especially painful because I am the type of person to desperately covet what I cannot have. If someone tells me something is unattainable I will hit the wall at the end of the internet looking for it. Usually I am victorious. Case in point: my doorbell is actually made from two wine glasses that sound like they are clinking together when a little spring-loaded electromagnet chimes them. I truly found it at the end of the internet and I’m pretty sure it was because someone told me I couldn’t. This long diatribe is all to say that Jonas’ lack of fish fortitude only makes me crave it all the more. Especially in summer. Strangely enough, he has one exception in the seaward realm: tuna. He will order ahi with abandon, despite its sustainability implications. I feel bad buying it given said implications, but when a girl craves fish and there isn’t another option, she’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

Hence, I give you ahi poached in duck fat prepared l’orange. The whole l’orange thing came about because I was contemplating a way to tie my duck fat in with the dish and I decided adapting a classic duck preparation to fish would make an interesting juxtaposition. I was right. It was one of the most succulent slices of fish I have had in years. I did my poaching in the sous vide bath, thus enabling me to use far less duck fat than I would have needed had I poached stovetop in a pan. Because the poaching is for such a short time relatively speaking, however, you could probably get away with poaching in a food-safe vacuum-sealed bag on the stovetop in temperature-controlled water.

I was a little worried all the elements of the dish might not play nice with one another, but my concern was all for naught. The key players- ahi, duck fat, oranges, figs and translucent potato rounds- all clung together like star-crossed lovers about to be damned. The duck fat brought out a brilliant silken texture in the tuna that made biting through it a dream. The figs, from a neighbor’s tree, bathed luxuriously in the caramelly citrus sauce and lent a sense of cohesion between the potatoes and the rest of the dish. Who knew figs and potatoes paired so perfectly? I’m dreaming up a figgy gratin melange as I type… Pommes Maxim are a wonderful, and relatively simple, take away from The French Laundry. It’s a fun process that involves making 1/4” slices of potato on the mandolin, then using a 2” cutter to stamp them into rounds. They come together as wheels on parchment, then get pan-fried in (you guessed it) duck fat (my addition). It’s all you can do not to devour them straight from the pan when they develop a golden crust and fill the kitchen with their sweet perfume.

Ahi Poached in Duck Fat L’Orange with Caramelized Figs

Serves 4

• 1 lb block of sushi-grade ahi tuna (COLD)
• Kosher salt and pepper
• 4 tbsp duck fat- solid
• Juice of one organic orange
• 1 tsp organic orange zest
• 2 tbsp honey
• 1 tbsp champagne vinegar
• 4 quartered figs
• 4 slices of orange or 8 slices of mandarin
• ¼ c duck stock (can use chicken if duck is not on hand)

1. Bring sous vide bath to 138°. Pat tuna dry, season with salt and pepper, and seal into food safe bag along with duck fat using a vacuum sealer. Poach tuna in water bath for 17 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, in a skillet just large enough to hold the tuna, reduce orange juice, zest, honey, and vinegar to thin syrup consistency. Be careful not to reduce too much or you will not have enough syrup to glaze the tuna.
3. Remove the tuna from the water bath and pour two tablespoons of the duck/tuna fat into the skillet. Heat the skillet to medium high and sear the tuna on all sides in the orange glaze quickly so as not to further cook the inside of the tuna block. Remove the tuna to a cutting board to rest.
4. Add the figs and orange slices to the skillet and coat with the remaining glaze. Add the duck stock, scrape the pan with a wooden spoon to deglaze, and again reduce by half. This should take two minutes. While the stock is reducing to sauce, slice the tuna into quarter inch thick rectangles. Arrange on a plate along with the figs, orange slices and sauce.

Pierogi are similar to the Italian pastas I am very familiar with making, and yet oh-so-different.  Stylistically, the dough is more like a hybrid between biscuit and pasta dough, for one thing.  With typical tagliatelle, ravioli, lasagna, etc, the dough benefits from extreme manipulation. Biscuit dough (and similarly pie crust), on the other hand, should be touched as minimally as possible in order to ensure an airy texture.  Pierogi dough falls into the latter category in that its texture is better if it’s handled as little as possible, and yet you still have to roll it down to about an eighth of an inch thickness in order to cut rounds in order to form the individual pierog.  Yes, you heard me right, singularly they are pierog, and plural they are pierogi. Yes, you’ve undoubtedly heard American bastardizations including but not limited to perogis, perogies, perogy, pirohi, piroghi et cetera, but the accepted and accurate pluralization and spelling is pierogi.  I’m not sure why I’m going all soapbox on this word- it’s not as though I’m any kind of expert either by birth or experience, I just find it interesting I guess.

Anyway, in my effort to conquer the world of pasta I’ve decided to branch out beyond the land of Italia which I know and love so well into other areas with rich traditions of unleavened dough.  I’ve always admired the standard pierogi in all its cheesy potato glory, though I can’t exactly be trusted to leave well enough alone. Luckily this time the resulting pierogi were unimaginably spectacular, but traditionalists, you’d best turn back now.  Those of you who have read this blog for any amount of time know that I have an (un)healthy obsession with eggs.  I also happen to love tucking them inside dough. Pierogi and eggs are downright meant for one another, though the dumplings are small enough that the eggs must be of the quail variety.  I also decided some shaved raw asparagus would spruce things up a bit and help remind me that it is springtime, after all. It was a good call.

This recipe makes 12 pierogi.  The basic pierogi protocal is make the dough, make the filling, assemble, boil and finally fry.  The first thing to do is caramelize an onion by slicing it and putting it into a lidded dutch oven along with some butter.  Slide it into a 400° oven and don’t fuss with it for an hour.  You can make the dough and soften the potatoes however you see fit (I sous vide them) in the interim.  Once the onion has spent an hour sweating all its troubles away, transfer it to the stovetop and remove the lid.  Deglaze the pot with a generous splash of vermouth and scrape up all the fond that has developed.  Evaporate the vermouth, stir it all together and you have your caramelized onion.

Next, make the dough by mixing all the ingredients in a large bowl, kneading until it comes together, then allow to rest in plastic wrap while you prepare the filling.  Here are the dough ingredients:

Dough

• 2 c flour
• ¾ c sour cream
• 1 duck egg
• 3 tbsp softened butter
• ½ tsp salt

While your dough is resting, combine the cooked potatoes with the filling ingredients (except the quail eggs, salt and pepper) in a food processor and process until smooth.  Here are the filling ingredients:

Filling

• ½ lb Yukon gold potatoes
• 1 c cheddar cheese, grated
• 3 tbsp caramelized onion (or more, to taste)
• ¼ c sour cream
• 1 quail egg yolk per pierogi (in this case 12)
• Salt and pepper to taste

At this point remove the quail eggs from the refrigerator and set a large pot of water to boil.  Divide the dough in thirds and roll the first third out on a floured surface into a rectangle about 4” wide and 1/8” thick.  Using a large cookie cutter or glass (3-4” diameter), cut four rounds out of the first rectangle. You will be making 12 rounds total.  Drop a tablespoon of filling on each round and make a hole big enough for the quail egg yolk in the filling using your index fingers.  Brush each pierog with egg wash to make sealing easier.   Crack egg yolks into each pierogi (it’s ok if some white goes too- it helps bind the pierog) and seal by folding one side of the pierog over the other.  Crimping is optional, but if you want to do it you can do it with the tines of a fork.  In order to ensure even crimping, always place the first tine of the fork in the last indentation you made, like this:

Repeat this process with the remaining dough and move each batch to rest on a sheetpan lined with parchment paper.

Once you are finished filling your pierogi, boil in batches of four in lightly salted water for four minutes.  Remove with a slotted spoon.  Meanwhile, shave several stalks of asparagus and leave the shavings in lemon water to tenderize. Fry the pierogi in butter along with more of the caramelized onion on both sides until they lightly brown. Serve with sour cream and shavings of raw asparagus.

There is a lot going on with this dish and yet each mouthful is pure, refreshing, almost crisp.  The multi-layered flavor profile of the Mangalitsa pig jowl probably has much to do with the fact that the rest of the dish unites so beautifully. There is a lot to cling onto in the jowl, and it helps each of the other ingredients to shine in a different way.  I had the great pleasure of meeting Heath Putnam recently, proprietor of Wooly Pigs. Heath is all about Mangalitsa pigs, which are a highly specialized breed of pig whose main distinguishing characteristic is that they are much fattier than typical American pigs, including most heritage breeds.  Since we all know that fat is flavor, you can imagine how creamy and succulent these babies taste. The Mangalitsa was first imported to the US by Wooly Pigs, and to date they remain the primary stateside supplier.  The company was founded a few short years ago, and has the noble distinction of selling their first pig to none other than The French Laundry.  I encourage you to learn more about this robustly flavored breed, as well as the European slaughtering techniques that produce more globally classic cuts of meat.

I picked up a jowl from Heath recently, and I gave it the true attention it deserved.  If you know me at all you know I can’t resist throwing things into the sous vide, but I wanted to add depth to the flavor, so I lightly smoked the jowl first.  It was a challenge keeping my smoker at 150°, so I only smoked it for an hour, but it was enough- the smoke clung to the brined jowl in just the right way.  After smoking, I tossed it in the sous vide bath at 150° for 36 hours. Once I removed it it was tender as filet mignon, lightly smoked, and ready to transform ordinary pasta dishes into otherworldly palatial experiences (yes, that’s a pun on palate- no, I don’t apologize for it).  I used the jowl in a typical ragu one evening, unfortunately it was dark, much wine was imbibed, and the camera sat languishing in the corner. Suffice to say that if you ever find yourself laden with smoked sous vide Mangalitsa jowl, you can’t go wrong replacing the pancetta portion of a typical Bolognese with it.  Remarkable.

From the success of the ragu I knew I wanted to spruce up another pasta with the jowl, and I’ve been on a bit of a gnocchi kick lately, hence these perfectly coddled gnocchi made from Okinawan purple sweet potatoes. The sweetness in the potato highlights the smokiness in the jowl and becomes richness personified.  I only added the favas and chickpeas because they were in season, startlingly fresh, and both provided two welcome textural additions to the otherwise relatively soft dish.  I will leave you with a quick warning about shelling the peas and beans of spring. BUY EXTRA!! Half inevitably meet their fate in your mouth before they ever see the inside of a frying pan.  They are worth the time it takes to shell them, since one secreted bite of raw chickpea or fava is like eating spring.

I had never been to the Corson Building but have been very happy with head chef Matt Dillon’s other enterprises around Seattle (including the newly revamped Sitka and Spruce) so thought it would be an appropriate setting for our third anniversary.  The actual structure and grounds of the building itself cast a spell on me the moment I arrived, and Jonas and I spent an enchanted half hour sipping an aperitif walking the spaces in marvel.  An Italian family is responsible for the building and it shows in the quality construction. It’s worth going to the Corson Building for the ambience alone.  I was able to snap some photos in the kitchen of our upcoming meal, and it was a good thing too, since once we were seated there was very little opportunity for photography. 

Saturday evening meals are done communally at the Corson building, with essentially four tables that each seat eight people. If you are fortunate you will dine with jovial compatriots as passionate about food and wine as yourselves, or maybe not. We got lucky with most of our table mates, the couple across from us regaled us with tales of the inner workings of being defense attorneys- talk about the underbelly of society! 

The other reason I wouldn’t have been able to photograph the food is that the dishes are served family-style for the entire table of eight, and since we were at the foot end of the table, by the time each platter reached me it was no longer in a terribly photogenic state.  I think this is a brilliant way to set up an evening, and I don’t think concessions or adjustments based on dietary preferences are necessary, however the menu should be posted in advance so diners can choose whether to attend that particular dinner.  When my husband called to make the reservation they basically asked if any food would kill him, which it won’t, though the fact that he doesn’t eat seafood or mushrooms limited him to just two courses of the entire meal, which is significant considering what you’re paying.  Again, I don’t think a chef should make apologies for the menu he creates, and diners should be encouraged to step out on a culinary limb and eat outside their comfort zone, just make the menu available in advance. 

This particular evening the menu consisted of smoked trout with pickled vegetables and fiddlehead ferns, brine-cured local lox with crème fraiche, bresaola with raw beets, fennel and dill as well as horseradish and purslane to start.  Next we moved to a delicate halibut bone broth with steamed halibut and mussels from Taylor’s shellfish along with watercress, and lovage.  It was the standout dish of the night.  Next were soft shell crabs served with porcini mushrooms on a walnut sauce, followed by duck eggs with morels from Cle Elum served with leeks and caraway seeds.  We completed the savory dishes with duck from Stokesberry Farm braised in red wine with fennel, green garlic, asparagus, spring onions, and pea shoots accompanied by duck fat fried potatoes with pork belly cured like pancetta but flat, not rolled.  Dessert was an effervescent sorbet made with goat’s milk yogurt finished with strawberries and two types of shortbread cookies.  I greatly appreciate their use of local producers such as Stokesberry Farms and Taylor’s Shellfish.

We went to the Corson Building on the evening of the soft-opening for Sitka and Spruce, the head chef’s other local restaurant, so naturally he was attending to the details of the opening and not at the Corson Building.  I wish he had been with us instead, although I understood the circumstances.  I think perhaps the food suffered a little in his absence as well.  All of the elements were there, but several of the dishes fell flat upon execution. Sometimes too many ingredients marred the natural elegance of the base flavor in the dish, as was the case with the bresaola. Bresaola is my favorite cured cut of meat, made from beef eye of round.  Perhaps my expectations are too high, given that. The bresaola itself was perfectly cured, perfectly sliced and a thing of beauty. Unfortunately too many ingredients masked its flavor, and it wasn’t just me as I asked around the table if folks knew what meat they were eating and most of them thought it was a very mild pork. Had it been allowed to stand with fewer accoutrements it would have shone brighter.  The stronger dishes were the less complicated ones, such as duck braised in wine, and duck eggs with mushrooms.  I was surprised that the delicate halibut in clear broth was so delightful given that it was much more refined in presentation than everything else. In fact it was the only dish that was served individually to each patron. 

A quick note on the wine: the sommelier is a self-proclaimed Francophile, which is a wonderful thing to be most of the time. I love French wines, almost as much as I love Piedmontese wines, so I was mostly happy with his wine pairings.  I wish there were a bona fide red-only wine pairing, as we opted out of the whites, though instead of adding additional reds to our pours, he simply poured us more glasses of the two reds in his original pairing.  In retrospect I probably would have gotten a bottle or two of something I really loved, then maybe had a glass or two of his selections if they intrigued me.  Since the meal lasts from 6:30 until 10ish (which is long by American standards, though short and early by Italian ones) you could easily bring a few bottles and just pay corkage, sampling from his glass pours when they tickle your fancy. 

On the whole it was a Seattle dining experience I would recommend, though next time I go I will make sure Matt Dillon is in the house and I will attempt to learn the basics of the menu of the evening as well.

When I think of poutine I think of romance, legs in pencil skirts gracefully exiting limos, Concord dashes to Paris for a quick shopping jaunt. Those of you who have had poutine are surely shaking your heads right now thinking what it should conjure for me is glutted arteries and heart attacks at 45, but no matter. Poutine is one of those insanely attractive foods that I’ll never refuse, even if it means an extra five miles on the treadmill the next day.  A quick bit of history: poutine originated in Quebec in the late 1950’s and consists of fries, cheese curds, and sauce.  There are many variations on the sauce, but it is essentially agreed upon that the most traditional sauce is a veloute made with chicken stock (the difference between veloute and gravy being that the former is made with stock whereas the latter cream or milk).  By the 1970’s, poutine had worked its way into the hearts of New York and New Jerseyites who often referred to it by another moniker: disco fries.  I’m sure Lady Gaga would be proud.  I think this is where my non-lived-through nostalgia comes in. I just imagine the fabulous queens (gay and otherwise) of the Studio 54 set tumbling out of the club at 5 am ordering disco fries from the nearest greasy spoon to sop up all of the vodka tonics consumed during a wild night of dancing and debauchery. 

I’ve been on a bit of a poutine kick lately, which is perfectly ok since I’m also on a bit of a training for a half-marathon kick too, so there.  I’m not sure any amount of running can justify the fact that I recently bought a deep fryer, but it sure makes kick ass fries, so I’m throwing caution to the wind.  I’ve been experimenting up a storm with the Okinawan purple sweet potatoes that are flooding the shelves of Uwajimaya right now, and the true test of a good potato is to fry it straight up.  I feel like by buying a deep fryer I’ve suddenly become initiated into a secret club where I get to learn little secrets like when you’re frying potatoes you must double dip.  Yup, it’s true, the interior gets cooked but stays soft, then the second dip in the fryer crisps up the exterior and provides necessary crunch. 

I had sous vided a quartered duck the day before, so I made a veloute of the remaining jus and simply slathered it over the pretty fries. I completed the look with a smattering of fresh cheese curds from Seattle’s own Beechers Cheese.  It couldn’t be simpler, like Canada’s answer to nachos, but to my mind, much better, and irrefutably more romantic.  What are you waiting for- go out and imbibe too much of your favorite liquor and soak it all up after you’re good and drunk and danced out with a steaming plate of poutine.  You’ll be hooked before you can say “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

Back in the ‘70’s the question du jour was “Do you fondue?”  If your answer to this simple question was not affirmative I’m told you would be virtually cast away to Gilligan’s Island to live out your days far, far away from Studio 54, Jean Michel Basquiat and all things polyester.  I’m hoping to start a new, globally-sweeping trend now that we’re nearing the bend of 2010 (hard to believe, isn’t it!) by busting out my raclette set and throwing a thoroughly modern type of shindig.  Maybe the catchy slogan will be “Got raclette?”  A thinly veiled attempt to make “Got milk” actually sound appealing.  Yeah, maybe not.  I’m starting to think that universal food trends only come about when you can think of a really good slogan to advertise them, and alas, raclette isn’t exactly the easiest word to throw into a play on words.  Well, let’s move on from my semantic quandary and get down to the meat of the evening (I am such a dork).

If anyone is wondering what I’m going on about and wouldn’t know raclette from Adam, let me explain. Raclette is a Swiss/French cheese and is also the name of the tabletop heated griddle/cooker used to melt said cheese.  You can officially call it a raclette party when you add various bits to the mix such as cornichons, boiled potatoes (I boil my potatoes in bacon grease for the added health benefit-ha ha) and an assortment of meats that you fry up on the griddle as you’re melting your cheese under the heating element. 

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