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desperanceSometimes I still wish this were a proper food blog, with splendid photographs and enticing design and thousands of readers and indexed searchable recipes and a book contract in the offing and like that. Because that would be fun, and there is a reassurance in the imagination that is missing from actuality, and like that; but also, and mostly, because then I could do justice to last night. Because last night was thrown together in a way that oddly worked, and it's a shame to let it. Evanescence offers its own comfort in the long term, as a philosophical approach to death, but it's a shame and a waste when it's applied to good food.
A few years back, we were in Provence, in one of those Roman/mediaeval towns that cluster around the rivers; and it was coming up lunchtime, and we were winding our way down an alley wondering if we should try this restaurant or that, vaguely aware in that way that one is that much depended on the decision, because we'd likely never come this way again so this was our only chance to get it right.
And in the end, as one does, we picked almost at random, and went inside - and right there by the door was a huge wheel of parmesan on its own special table, with a great hacked hollow at its core. And I wondered quite why anyone would dig out the heart of a cheese that way, rather than slicing in politely from its rim; and also quite why they'd have it out on display that way, as though they were proud of their crude approach; and then we sat down and they brought menus, and then I knew.
And the others ordered this and that, and I asked for the speciality of the house. And the speciality was a little old man who came out from the kitchen with two pans: one holding pasta cooked with sage leaves, and the other hot whisky. He ran an edged hook around the hollow in the cheese, scraping off yet more in shavings; then he tossed the pasta and sage into the cheesy hole; then he set the whisky aflame and poured that over all. And tossed it all about, and scooped it all out into a bowl, and that was my lunch.
Which I can't reproduce exactly, because giant-wheel-of-parmesan; but I do have a bastard version in my repertoire. And yesterday was World Pasta Day, as you know.
And man nor woman neither shall live by pasta alone: but a friend had kindly left me a branch of lime leaves*, and I was told that chicken thighs awaited me, skin-on, bone-in.
So we headed off to Dave and Katherine's last night with a bag of sesame seed buns and a box of ingredients else. And I marinated the chicken thighs in soy and chilli for an hour, then laid them on a bed of lime leaves and stuck 'em in a hottish oven to bake.
Meanwhile I boiled a pound of fusilli until al dente or au point, and when it was drained I tipped it all back into the hot pan (for this is my method; if the pasta cannot come to the cheese, then the cheese must come to the pasta). In went a quarter-pound of shaved parmesan, tossity-toss. And then a couple of dozen sage leaves from the garden went into maybe half a cup of whisky (I didn't measure, no; it may have been more), which I warmed until it seethed. Then I dimmed the lights, struck a match and set it all aflame, and poured it over the pasta, and tossity-toss. [Note to the anxious: this is not a polite tablespoonful dribbled and flickering over the Christmas pudding. There will be hot flamey action, and it will go on for a while. Use a big pot, and a long spoon.]
Yes, it's mac-and-cheese: but oh, is it good. It may be my signature dish (tho' if so, I don't sign much. This was the first time I've made it in America).
Six of us ate a pound of pasta, and would have eaten more; but then the chicken was crisp, so I took that off the bed of lime leaves and laid it instead on a bed of baby spinach and basil leaves mixed, and people ate all that too, so I was happy.
And then there was a fruitcake that was nothing to do with me, that had been laid down in alcohol-soaked cheesecloth, a practice unfamiliar to Brits; I had only read about it a few days ago, and was delighted to meet it in action. (And yes, I really should get on with this year's Christmas cake, and Christmas pudding too...)
And that was my part in yesterday, and I wish this was a food blog so I could tell you about it properly, with pix and everything, but, y'know. That'd be work.
*I have a whole library at my back that calls them kaffir limes; I also have thirty years of mild discomfort, knowing how offensive that word is to South Africans, and wondering if there was any connection to a culinary tradition half a world away, and not doing anything to find out. Now I know: or at least I know that no one really knows, and that's good enough for me. I'd call them makrut limes hereafter, except that most people wouldn't know what I meant; so it'll probably just be "lime leaves" and this explanation repeated ad nauseam.
A few years back, we were in Provence, in one of those Roman/mediaeval towns that cluster around the rivers; and it was coming up lunchtime, and we were winding our way down an alley wondering if we should try this restaurant or that, vaguely aware in that way that one is that much depended on the decision, because we'd likely never come this way again so this was our only chance to get it right.
And in the end, as one does, we picked almost at random, and went inside - and right there by the door was a huge wheel of parmesan on its own special table, with a great hacked hollow at its core. And I wondered quite why anyone would dig out the heart of a cheese that way, rather than slicing in politely from its rim; and also quite why they'd have it out on display that way, as though they were proud of their crude approach; and then we sat down and they brought menus, and then I knew.
And the others ordered this and that, and I asked for the speciality of the house. And the speciality was a little old man who came out from the kitchen with two pans: one holding pasta cooked with sage leaves, and the other hot whisky. He ran an edged hook around the hollow in the cheese, scraping off yet more in shavings; then he tossed the pasta and sage into the cheesy hole; then he set the whisky aflame and poured that over all. And tossed it all about, and scooped it all out into a bowl, and that was my lunch.
Which I can't reproduce exactly, because giant-wheel-of-parmesan; but I do have a bastard version in my repertoire. And yesterday was World Pasta Day, as you know.
And man nor woman neither shall live by pasta alone: but a friend had kindly left me a branch of lime leaves*, and I was told that chicken thighs awaited me, skin-on, bone-in.
So we headed off to Dave and Katherine's last night with a bag of sesame seed buns and a box of ingredients else. And I marinated the chicken thighs in soy and chilli for an hour, then laid them on a bed of lime leaves and stuck 'em in a hottish oven to bake.
Meanwhile I boiled a pound of fusilli until al dente or au point, and when it was drained I tipped it all back into the hot pan (for this is my method; if the pasta cannot come to the cheese, then the cheese must come to the pasta). In went a quarter-pound of shaved parmesan, tossity-toss. And then a couple of dozen sage leaves from the garden went into maybe half a cup of whisky (I didn't measure, no; it may have been more), which I warmed until it seethed. Then I dimmed the lights, struck a match and set it all aflame, and poured it over the pasta, and tossity-toss. [Note to the anxious: this is not a polite tablespoonful dribbled and flickering over the Christmas pudding. There will be hot flamey action, and it will go on for a while. Use a big pot, and a long spoon.]
Yes, it's mac-and-cheese: but oh, is it good. It may be my signature dish (tho' if so, I don't sign much. This was the first time I've made it in America).
Six of us ate a pound of pasta, and would have eaten more; but then the chicken was crisp, so I took that off the bed of lime leaves and laid it instead on a bed of baby spinach and basil leaves mixed, and people ate all that too, so I was happy.
And then there was a fruitcake that was nothing to do with me, that had been laid down in alcohol-soaked cheesecloth, a practice unfamiliar to Brits; I had only read about it a few days ago, and was delighted to meet it in action. (And yes, I really should get on with this year's Christmas cake, and Christmas pudding too...)
And that was my part in yesterday, and I wish this was a food blog so I could tell you about it properly, with pix and everything, but, y'know. That'd be work.
*I have a whole library at my back that calls them kaffir limes; I also have thirty years of mild discomfort, knowing how offensive that word is to South Africans, and wondering if there was any connection to a culinary tradition half a world away, and not doing anything to find out. Now I know: or at least I know that no one really knows, and that's good enough for me. I'd call them makrut limes hereafter, except that most people wouldn't know what I meant; so it'll probably just be "lime leaves" and this explanation repeated ad nauseam.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-27 03:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-27 06:27 pm (UTC)And this thing with the whisky sounds completely, perfectly delicious and I will be trying it soon.