Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Dean and Deluca Blog, August 2010.

I confess. When I have been in the dining company of vital, health-conscious young women who are fat-phobic (a rather high percentage of this demo), I have been able to make them see that butter is a beautiful thing. I have been able to make them see that olive oil is a beautiful thing.

But when I try to make them see that mayonnaise is a beautiful thing, they bolt.

“Why would I ever put mayonnaise in my mouth?” one of them once earnestly asked. “It’s disgusting.”

This, my friends, is The Lost Mayonnaise Generation. Sneakers to work and all.

And I guess I understand how years and years of putting a dry slice of turkey breast on a piece of bread, diligently avoiding the relief of fat, creating all the mental and emotional structures to make that choice automatic–could ultimately mold one’s reactions so that mayonnaise instinctively seems like a white form of the devil.

In my experience, however, when you carefully and artificially hone those synapse-jumping instant reactions, you may be depriving your synapses–and all the rest of you, like your mouth!–of a great experience.

Mayonnaise–and I’m talking here about the commercial stuff, like Hellman’s–is wonderful sandwich-making magic. Foodie Americans are sometimes ashamed of the fact that Hellman’s is always in their refrigerators–but I know one very famous French chef who, because he cannot get Hellman’s in Paris–travels the world with an empty suitcase when he thinks he’s passing through a country where Hellman’s might be available at the supermarket. When I asked him why he prefers Hellman’s to his own, hand-made mayo, he said–and I kid you not–”because it is bett-air! It is mush bett-air!”

Shocking? Well, to me, home-made and Hellman’s are simply two different things that share a name. So you don’t have to go around feeling Hellman’s is “worse.”

And then you should imagine a Frenchman coming to the U.S., and being presented with a towering sandwich. It is made from good white bread, toasted gold on the outside. Inside await gorgeous, ripe red tomatoes, refreshing lettuce, a few rashers of crispy bacon, and the magic white stuff. Imagine his surprise on that first bite–the way the mayo plays like jazz off the tomatoes, then off the bacon, in two different ways, wrapping its crazy-rich eggy garment first around acid, then around salt, drawing all the elements into one helluva gullet-glow consummation.

You bet they’re lost, that generation! Come on people….live a little! Mangez les bons produits Americains!

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Dean and Deluca Blog, August 2010.

(2013 NOTE: This piece, from 2010, refers to specific olive oils that were young in 2010. In 2013, you should seek out the youngest oils available, as always.)

There is a dichotomy in the world of olive oil that’s every bit as important as the wine world’s red-white dichotomy: some people prefer olive oils made from under-ripe olives, some people prefer olive oils made from fully ripe olives. The styles are as different as night and day. Each style has its advantages…but each style also has its disadvantages.

Let’s start with the olives themselves–about which there’s a widespread misunderstanding. Many olive neophytes think that green olives, and black olives, are two different kinds of olives. T’ain’t so. All olives are green when under-ripe, turn to brown or purple as they’re ripening, then become black at full ripeness .

If you own olive trees, and wish to press the olives for oil, you have a choice to make: should your oil be from under-ripe olives? medium-ripe-olives? ripe olives? a mixture?

Some rough generalizations:

Olive oil made from ripe, or black, olives, has a buttery-smooth richness to it. It is warm, mellow, comforting, subtle, with a nutty kind of appeal. Detractors feel it’s too subtle, without the drama of un-ripe-olive olive oil. Ripe-olive-oil is the dominant style in Liguria and Provence.

Olive oil made from under-ripe, or green, olives–as in Tuscany–reflects the sharp green-ness of the under-ripe olives. For starters, it has much more of an early-season,  “fruity” flavor than ripe-olive oils do; that flavor is often tinged with the greenness of wheatgrass, or raw artichokes. Texturally, it can be less rich than ripe olive oil, not as mouth-coating.

But then we come to the biggest stumbling block of all, for some tasters: green olive oil carries the asperity of under-ripe fruit in two ways. The oil can be bitter on your palate, or peppery-sharp as it goes down your throat.

To lovers of ripe olive oil, these are fatal flaws. But to lovers of unripe oil’s increased intensity, bitterness and piquancy come with the territory. The aficionados argue that olive oil’s not for drinking, it’s for drizzling on food–and a little sharpness is just what you want to wake up your grilled bread, or warm beans, or grizzled steak.

Can you guess? I’m on their side.

I’ve just tasted three great oils that will give you a good idea of the parameters of under-ripe flavor in olive oil. If you’re not used to thinking about olive oil in this way….why not give ‘em a try, and see what the shoutin’s all about?

Oleum Viride. This lovely organic Spanish oil, from Sierra de Grazalema in the Cadiz province of Andalucia, is extremely rich, almost soupy–which makes me suspect that there’s a considerable ratio of ripe olives in here. But there’s green as well–as you can discern from the striking bitterness that sets in about mid-palate. I adored it on rich grilled swordfish, the butteriness supporting the fat, the bitterness cutting through it.

Les Terroirs de Marrakech. Made in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains, this cloudy-yellow oil, with hints of green, features extraordinary and unusual flavors: pumpkin, spice, confectionery. But deep in the back of the throat it wails the unmistakable under-ripe olive song: a peppery burn that lasts for minutes. Another masterful blend of ripe and under-ripe qualities.

Montebernardi, Raccolta 2009, Panzano in Chianti. And, finally, the full-out green-olive-oil deal, a textbook example of young Tuscan under-ripe oil–made less than a year ago, which is the ideal time frame for consumption. The elegant body–rich but not cloying–carries excellent wheatgrass flavor, a scratch of bitterness, and lots of peppery finish. Do as the Tuscans do: grill up a porterhouse, then gild the lily by anointing it with this arrestingly spicy stuff!

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Dean and Deluca Blog. 

When it comes to grating cheese over Italian food, the king of the hill in America, for decades, has been the stuff with various versions of “Parma” in its name.

But Americans are getting much more sophisticated now–both in how accurately they’re using the “P” word, and in how often they’re finding alternatives.

First things first. Though we were all brought up calling this stuff “Parmesan cheese”–and though the only experience many of us had of it, for years, was out of a little green shaker purchased at the supermarket–we were dead wrong. The real stuff, which comes from Parma and other areas around the Po Valley in Italy, is called “Parmigiano-Reggiano.” And when I started asking questions of Parmigiano-Reggiano officials, they told me, unequivocally, “no cheese from Parma has EVER gone into that little green shaker.”

Well, most of us know by now that to get the real thing, you have to find a chunk from a big wheel that has the Parmigiano-Reggiano’s consorzio logo all over it. But not everyone knows that this grand cheese, shredded or grated, is not de rigueur for pasta and other Italian dishes. For me, Parmigiano-Reggiano, with its very dairy-like taste, and its tendency to reach something almost caramel-like with age, is a perfect cheese for pasta dishes that emphasize dairy. Hit fresh pasta with butter, with a little cream, perhaps…and a major shake of Parmigiano-Reggiano is uncannily appropriate.

However, in the U.S., Parmigiano-Reggiano probably gets used at least as often in tomato-garlic-olive oil pasta dishes–a practice distinctly frowned on in Italy! No, when the pasta compass points south, the cow’s-milk Parmigiano-Reggiano should yield to…the sheep’s-milk Pecorino! The gamy, earthy, barnyard-y taste of grated hard sheep’s milk cheese is a much better match with tomato sauces, and even seems more appropriate on dried pasta dishes. If you’re still into the Parmigiano-Reggiano with tomato sauce thing…discover what many chefs across America have discovered in recent years: this is where Pecorino Romano, or Pecorino Sardo, is in its element.

And one more note: northern Italy yields another interesting grating cheese, Grana Padano, which, like Parmigiano-Reggiano, is made from cow’s milk. Because it’s a little cheaper per pound, Grana Padano has long been considered by American Italophiles as an inferior alternative to Parmigiano-Reggiano. But ‘taint so! It is a bit less concentrated in its dairy flavor–and sophisticated chefs have discovered recently that that can be a plus! If your Parmigiano-Reggiano threatens to steal the spotlight in any dish, the answer is simple–use the subtler, better-harmonizing Grana Padano instead!

Photos Via: BigStockPhoto

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, November 2002.

At year-end holiday time, Americans are highly imaginative in their party-planning: we’re likely to draw on American ideas, British ideas, Italian ideas, French ideas, Mexican ideas and more. But one of the world’s culinary corners that lends itself most delectably to parties–and to winter parties, at that!–is oftentimes overlooked.

Ja…I speak of Scandinavia, and its glorious food traditions. Light, clean, pure, pretty food that makes everyone happy. Even though there’s not a drop of Nordic blood in me, some of my best holiday parties ever have had Scandinavian themes. And the preparation of it all is sufficiently simple that the cook doesn’t even have to get stressed out pulling it together.

Here are five easy and amazingly delicious things you can do to get all that frosty Northern goodness on your festive bord:

(2012 NOTE: Good news! All products are available in 2012 from either Scandinavian Butik or Scandinavian Food Store.)

Stage A Scandinavian Seafood Feast.

Here are the ones I most want you to know about for your holiday parties:

Shrimp

I’ve long been a huge fan of Scandinavian shrimp. I got addicted to them in Oslo, going down to the docks to buy them from fishing boats that had just pulled in to shore. You buy the critters cooked, cold, with head, tail and shell on. As you clean them with your fingers–revealing the shrimp within that are skinnier, crisper, less “doughy” than ours–you find wonderful roe and creamy head fat. Better still, the shrimp meat is intensely sweet, and simultaneously salty like the brine of the sea. There is nothing like them in the world. How depressed I’ve been that I have to travel all the way to Scandinavia to get them.

And how ecstatic I am to find out that I don’t–because Scandinavian Butik carries a wonderful product called Shrimp, Scandinavian-Style, Peel-On (only $17.95 for 2 lb.!) This is a major revelation! They are frozen, but every home freezer in Sweden has bags of this stuff–and if you defrost them properly in the fridge they come back to life beautifully, tasting just like they do on a Scandinavian dock, and nothing like shrimp do in America.

The very best way to serve them–remember, no cooking needed–is to simply place them in a bowl, accompanied by brown bread, butter, beer and/or aquavit. Watch your guests go wild as they shell and munch. Another option is to shell them yourself, and use them as the main ingredient in a Swedish open-faced sandwich. They also make wonderful garnishes for fish-in-cream-sauce dishes.

Crawfish

Another joy in Scandinavia is crawfish, which the crawfish-mad Swedes call kreftor. They eat them at delirious crayfish parties in late August–but you can get amazing crawfish, some of them huge, year-round. Once again, they come cooked and frozen. But these high-quality crawfish also arrive marinating in a mesmerizing Swedish-style broth, that is redolent of “crown” dill and other herbs and spices. Once again, serving them is simplicity itself: place them in a huge bowl, give your guests plenty of napkins, and watch the shell-cracking begin. For eight people who want a good taste, a 2.2 lb box of Crawfish, Cooked ($32.00) from Scandinavian Butik should suffice.

Löjrom

Scandinavians love their caviar–but not necessarily sturgeon roe! One of the world’s most delicious lower-cost caviar alternatives is the roe of the bleak fish, called löjrom. It has a clean, slightly salty, very sea-like taste, and a wonderfully fuzzy-but-crunchy kind of texture in the dark-yellow eggs. I like löjrom all by itself with a spoon–but I also like it as the Swedes do, on starchy things (bread, blini, potato pancakes) with creme fraiche, chopped red onion and dill. One more use: it makes an amazing garnish on open-faced sandwiches. Try it especially on the Swedish shrimp sandwich. Löjrom from Scandinavian Food Store costs $16.50 for a 50 gram jar.

Caviar Spread

Here’s an even lower-cost “caviar”–the tubes of cod roe spread that are ubiquitous in Scandinavia. They are wonderful for your party buffet: what you push out of the tube can serve as squiggly garnishes for things, can be served on crackers (like Scandinavian flat bread), on hard-boiled eggs, on cucumber slices. Scandinavian Food Store offers a bunch of tubular possibilities, but my favorite is the Caviar Kalles, Abba ($4.00 for a 6.7-ounce tube.) It is intensely sweet-salty, with a wonderful essence-of-the-sea taste. Some of the tubes have contents that are gooey and runny, but this one is stiff and light in texture. My runner-up is the Caviar Kalles with Dill, Abba (same company, same price, same size.) It’s a little less intense, but with a wonderful dill flavor. Remember to use only a little–these tubes are concentrated flavor bombs!

Herring

Scandinavia’s favorite fish gets a bad name in America; that’s because Americans rarely get to taste herring that’s as fresh, as firm-textured, and as beautifully flavored as herring is in Scandinavia. One commercial brand that I enjoy over there is Abba, which has nothing to do with a 70s pop band…and, lo and behold, Scandinavian Butik has a whole line of Abba products available in the U.S. They do come in jars that look like Vita Herring jars, but fear not: these pieces of fish have a much livelier chew, and much better flavor. My favorite is the Abba Swedish Herring in Traditional Marinade–a winey-sweet broth, with tantalizing hints of clove and peppercorns. Next, I like the Abba Herring in Garlic Sauce, a dreamy creamy concoction, much thinner and more velvety than the Vita creamed herring sauce. In third place, for me, is the Abba Herring in Tomato Sauce, an almost painfully intense combination. I also like the Abba Herring in Dill Marinade, and the Abba Herring in Mustard Sauce (very creamy and yellow.) All come in jars ranging from 7.9-8.5 oz., and all cost $3.95 a jar. No smörgåsbord is complete without an assortment of herrings–so, at your Scandinavian party, why not present all five, ice-cold, each in a different dish, garnished with dill, accompanied by bread, butter, and frosty spirits? You’ll be amazed at how many herring converts you’ll make!

Scandinavian Butik web address is: http://www.scandinavianbutik.com/
Scandinavian Food Store’s web address is: http://www.scandinavianfoodstore.com/

Photos Via: Scandinavian Butik, Scandinavian Food Store, Bigstockphoto 

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Wine Enthusiast, July 2009.

SPECIAL 2012 NOTE: I’m into something fantastic right now: the best rum cakes I’ve ever tasted. I mean it. And everyone who tastes them says the same. AND…you can taste them yourself!…by ordering them from me in time for the holidays. Great gifts. Great feasts!

After the archive piece below, you will find complete descriptions of these cakes, mouthwatering photos, and full ordering details. Before we go there, however…I wanted to give you a little rum background in the form of a column I wrote for The Wine Enthusiast a few years back. Enjoy the rum talk…then enjoy the rum cakes!

This column is not going to be an extensive, in-depth analysis of Caribbean rum. No way. That’s because I’m in the middle right now of an intensive research session, and you know how that can be.

On the other hand, through darkness…light! The more I, ahem, research, the more it becomes clear to me exactly what it is that the normal consumer needs to know in order to have his or her Caribbean rum game together.

So listen carefully. Here are the crown jewels of Caribbean rum knowledge, albeit simplified:

1) It helps to know what this stuff is. You know it’s made from sugar cane, but sugar cane has a bewildering number of products and by-products. Simple explanation: In the 1600s, the sugar industry in the Caribbean, thanks to the new arrival of slaves from Africa, was cranking up its production and about to stumble on a big discovery. To make refined sugar–then and now–you have to squeeze sugar cane juice out of the sugar cane, boil it, process it, and, if you go all the way, white refined sugar is produced for eager consumers around the world. A necessary by-product is the sticky-dark molasses, which initially didn’t have a purpose other than being a by-product. Purpose arrived in the 17th century, probably in Barbados southeast Caribbean, in the form of the notion that you could ferment molasses, then distill the fermented liquid, ending up with a clear, high-alcohol spirit…called rum!

2) Soon, all of the Caribbean islands where sugar cane was growing got into the rum game, making rum from molasses. But each island made, and makes, its own style of rum–which made, and makes, things confusing for the consumer.

3) Here’s my epiphany (which I’m sure has been epiphed a million times before): your best guide to what’s what is knowing the national background of each island’s colonizers…Spanish, English or French (the three of whom bashed it out for centuries trying to establish control).

4) On the Spanish islands, a taste developed for clear, light rum–which is still the specialty of these places (think about see-through Bacardi, and you’ve got the idea). These are rums for mixing light-rum drinks, such as dacquiris and, most important, mojitos.

5) On the English islands, things went another way. Possibly with their national taste for English-owned classics like Port, like dark Sherry, the Brits encouraged the transformation of rum into something darker, richer. Not all dark rums are from English islands, of course…but it was the English who encouraged the storage of clear rum in wood barrels (which added color and richness), and the addition of caramel for even darker color. A rum like Myers’ Original Dark, from English-influenced Jamaica, is textbook–except that it ain’t great (it’s right in front of me and all I can smell or taste is alcohol). Dark English-style rums can be sipped (if they’re excellent), or turned into dark-rum cocktails (like Jamaica’s famous Dark ‘n Stormy, which combines dark rum and ginger beer).

6) On the French islands…oh, those French. “What if way dun make zee rum from zee mo-lass-SEZ…but…razzair…make eet from zee sugar cane juice itself?” they asked. And so they did. And so they came up with something unmistakably different, really quite French. In places like Martinique, the rum, made from sugar cane juice, not molasses, is called “rhum agricole”–and dang if it doesn’t have a more earthy character to it, a greater sense of, well, terroir, a greater complexity and elegance. The more direct connection of that sugar cane juice to the sugar cane itself makes the difference. Despite no molasses, it is dark rum, or, more correctly, amber (barrels and caramel do the trick)…but think of French Cognac and Armagnac as next of kin…the classic iron fists in velvet gloves. Good examples of French-island rum are the perfect, thoughtful, post-prandial sippers.

(2012 NOTE: The special case of Venezuela! Since I wrote this piece, I have fallen in love with the rums of a South American Country that touches the Caribbean: Venezuela. They are into age here, using solera systems to produce complex rums that suggest everything from butterscotch to nuts to spices, usually in a medium-bodied style.)

So…next time you’re buying rum…simply give yourself the Rum Style Quiz: do I want light, mixing rum…or dark English-style rum for dark cocktails…or cerebral, artisanal French rum for sipping? Once you know, find your country–and set sail for your rum shop!

Spanish-Influenced Rum Countries:
Cuba
Puerto Rico
Dominican Republic

English-Influenced Rum Countries:
Bahamas
British West Indies (Cayman Islands, Turks and Caicos)
Jamaica
British Virgin Islands (Tortola, Virgin Gorda, etc.)
Dominica
Saint Lucia (with some French history)
Anguilla
Antigua
Barbuda
St Kitts
Nevis
Montserrat
Barbados
St. Vincent
Grenada
Trinidad
Tobago

French-Influenced Rum Countries:
Haiti
French West Indies (Guadeloupe, Saint-Martin on the French side, Saint Bart, Les Saintes, Marie-Galante, Desirade, Martinique)

SPECIAL 2012 FOLLOW-UP: ACQUIRING RUM CAKE

Und now…ze cakes!

I first tasted Craig Adcock’s simply amazing Kansas City Rum Cake about five years ago. Just as a journalist, and a food enthusiast, I’ve been touting it ever since. Telling all my friends. Buying and sharing whenever possible. It was even the dessert I served to the press at my re-launch Rosengarten Report party a few years back. I so stand behind this product!

But now…things have gotten even better. I asked Craig last year (busy man though he is) if he would consider baking two more cakes–each one with a different rum, so that my readers might receive a sampler pack of THREE rum cakes, made with THREE different rums!

He said yes, bless him.

And here we are. Holiday season 2012–and your ability to buy what may be the THREE most delicious cakes you’ve ever tasted. To order, simply visit my shop HERE. Be sure to use discount code TASTE20 for 20% off of your order.

I’ve been dazzling my friends with rum cake tastings (everyone seems to have a different preference!)…and finishing holiday meals in grand fashion…and sending gifts of rum cake to all the feinschmeckers on my list!

Here are the three varieties that Craig has whipped up for me:

1 – “Jude’s Original”

Jude’s Original Kansas City Rum Cake

Soft, mellow, cake made from rum distilled in the revived Ninth Ward of New Orleans. This is our baseline rum cake, for those who prefer a comforting blend of all elements. A modicum of crispy pecans on top.

Light Nuts

Jude’s Rum Cake made with Old New Orleans Rum 3 year
(from the Lower 9th Ward)

2 – “Barbancourt Crunch”

Made with fiery, top-grade Barbancourt rum from Haiti. The exhilarating, full-blast rum experience…matched and balanced perfectly by a plethora of crispy pecans.

Heavy Nuts

Barbancourt 5 star (8 year)

3 – “St. Teresa Anejo”

Elegant Santa Teresa Anejo Gran Reserva Rum Cake

Made from the greatest Venezuelan rum. Eggy, buttery, browned-tasting, with no nuts (to give the subtlety center stage)…but with a thin veneer of caramelized sugar on top. The choice for connoisseurs.

Nut-free

Santa Teresa Anejo Gran Reserva

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, April 2002.

Yes, you bought a wok. Maybe even two woks! Yes, your cabinet is filled with the Chinese pre-mades of choice: soy sauce, sesame oil, hoisin sauce, etc. Yes, you’ve got on your shelf all the cool cookbooks on the subject of Chinese food, with hundreds of recipes at your disposal.

And yet, if you’re like me–or like I was for many years, before discovering The Secret–the Chinese stir-fries you make at home taste more like Bar Mitzvah food than Chinese restaurant food. (If you’ve never been to a Bar Mitzvah, substitute “wedding food“.) Where is that magical taste, and those magical textures, that every neighborhood Chinese take-out place–not to mention every Chinese restaurant of quality–seems to so effortlessly produce?

And then there’s a related issue. At the restaurant, you’re used to being served, say, three stir-fried dishes all at once–the classic Chinese table grazing, with every diner’s chopsticks wandering excitedly over the tablecloth. At home, it’s always a Chinese meal in freeze frame–one dish at a time, and rarely more than one dish altogether. Somehow, the fun of Chinese dining is deflated when the extra options are removed. But no one ever dreams of multi-plattering at home, because it takes too much time to cook each dish. Right?

I say not right. I say that if you’re cooking Chinese food correctly–or at least as they do it in restaurants–you can easily bring to the table three hot stir-fried dishes simultaneously. And, if you follow the precepts below–they’ll taste startlingly Chinese, to boot.

Here are the crucial things you need to know:

*Chinese stir-fries do not taste Chinese if you crowd the wok.

Crowding a wok causes the food to stew, not to fry–and that stew-y taste is the first clue that you’ve got wedding food on your hands. The best way to defeat crowding is to buy a large wok. Restaurants, of course, use enormous ones that wouldn’t even fit on our home ranges. But you should buy, for your home, a wok that measures at least 14″ across the top. Next tip: re-adjust your notions of how much food you can cook in that wok. You cannot make a stir-fry for 8 people at home! I always use 2 cups of total ingredients, or less, in any stir-fry I make in my 14″ wok. Of course, I turn out three of those low-volume stir-fries quickly, so everyone has plenty to eat.

*Chinese stir-fries must be cooked over high heat.

Chinese stir-fry chefs speak of “the taste of the wok”–by which they mean a sear, a burn, a charring that stir-fried ingredients get from a hot wok. Even if you’ve followed the first precept and not crowded your wok, if you cook your ingredients over low or medium heat you won’t get the restaurant taste. Now restaurants, of course, have huge infernos under their woks, which is great for the food. If you have a cool, quasi-commercial range at home–like a Garland, or a Viking with larger than normal burners–you’ll be fine. If all you have is the regular old puny household ring of fire–which I had for many years–you”ll still be fine. Just remember to put your large wok over the highest flame available to you–and let it sit there for a few minutes before you start adding anything. If you think your heat’s on the low side, you’ll have to adjust the quantity of food downward; perhaps a cup of ingredients is all your wok can handle.

*Authentic Chinese cooking often features multiple cooking processes in the same dish…for the same ingredient!

It is a myth that stir-fries are simply fried food that’s stirred. If you sneak into a Chinese restaurant kitchen, you’ll observe that many of the ingredients going into the stir-fry have been initially cooked in another way! Sometimes food is steamed, or boiled, or roasted before it goes into the wok. Most often, food is deep-fried (without batter) before it gets combined with the other ingredients in a stir-fry. Doing this confers several advantages. First of all, the additional cooking processes often lend texture interest to the wok-destined ingredients. But another implication of pre-cooking is absolutely crucial for the home cook: with many of your ingredients pre-cooked, the wokking takes no time at all.

*In Chinese restaurant cooking, so many dishes can be turned out so quickly because all of the ingredients–including lots of par-cooked ones–are lined up and within 1-2 minutes of being finished.

Most Chinese cookbooks teach you to chop, dice, mix in advance, to have your ingredients ready to go before you stir-fry. But by taking that one step further–that is, by having all of your prepped ingredients within 1-2 minutes of being finished in the wok–you can line up three sets of ingredients, for three separate dishes, cook them, and have them all on the table within 3 minutes of each other!

Photos Via: BigStockPhoto

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, November 2001.

Many factors contribute to the ultimate quality of the smoked salmon you buy. Here are some of them:

Genus of Salmon. There are two main types of salmon swimming around out there. The most prized is the Atlantic salmon, of the genus salmo salar. All European salmon are salmo salar, as are all eastern U.S. salmon. So, if your smoked salmon is made from salmon that was caught or raised in Scotland, Norway, Ireland or Maine, it’s salmo salar. It is highly prized because it has lots of the good stuff: oil.

The other main type is the Pacific salmon, of the genus oncorhynchus, which means “hook-nose.” Generally speaking, the Pacific type has less fat than the Atlantic type–which means that smoked salmon made from the western swimmers is usually less velvety and lush than the eastern-based smoked salmon. However, there are five different species within this hook-nosed genus, and some species are more desirable than others. Leading the quality list is Chinook salmon (also known as King, or Tyee), which has the most fat of all Pacific salmons, and makes the most luscious western smoked salmon. The other one you need to know is the bright-red, slightly drier Sockeye, which has its fans; it’s a smaller salmon, a condition which devotées say concentrates its flavor. Another species is Chum salmon (also known as Dog salmon, after the pets to which Eskimos feed their Chum); it is best avoided if you’re looking for a refined product.

Wild or Farmed? It is a romantic fantasy to think that there’s much wild salmon today in the smoked salmon distribution channels–so the issue of wild vs. farmed is mostly theoretical. And even if there were plenty–I’m still not so sure the difference would be worth getting worked up about. I’m reasonably certain that fresh wild salmon often has a deeper taste than farmed salmon–but I don’t think you can say the same about wild salmon vs. farmed salmon after they go through the curing/smoking process.

Salmon farming from the Bay of Fundy

Farmers, of course, have many arguments for the superiority of their product. They claim that farmed salmon is much more consistent–one reason being that the fat content of farmed salmon doesn’t vary from season to season. They say that their fish gets to the smokehouse in better condition, with none of the bruising that sometimes occurs in the catching of wild salmon; they say that bruised fish release lactic acid, which leads to deterioration of the flesh. Additionally, they say, they have been able (through control of the salmon’s environment) to triple the amount of omega-3 fatty acids found in salmon–the substance that scientists believe reduces cholesterol levels in humans, and makes this oil-savoring human very happy.

(Note: Since November 2001, when this piece was written, numerous factors have emerged that may make wild salmon the right choice for the environmentally–aware consumer.) 

Where Caught or Raised. If there were only wild salmon available, I’m sure connoisseurs would make much of where that salmon was caught. I’m told, for example, by a British trade organization, that wild Scottish salmon “have to swim upstream at an angle that on average is five times greater than the Norwegian angle.” This makes the Scottish wild fish stronger, they say, and deeper in flavor. That’s quite an angle itself.

But does scrutinizing national and regional differences make sense when such a high percentage of smoked salmon comes from farmed salmon? Are there discernible differences in farmed salmons from different countries?

I say “yes.” My smoked salmon utopia has always been Scotland…..and I have no difficulty believing that the intrinsic quality of the farmed salmon there is higher than it is in other places. Is such a thing explainable? It is, in fact; some argue that the better salmon that has been found for eons in the wild in Scotland–now selected and bred by modern scientists–has led to superior farmed salmon in Scotland. I must confess–though I don’t have incontrovertible evidence as to superior quality–that my heart leaps like a salmon breaching a stream when I’m about to taste a farmed salmon from Scotland.

Salmon farming in Scotland

Farmed salmon from northeastern North America also makes an extremely strong showing, with some salmon from the Bay of Fundy (between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick) ranking right up there with the world’s greatest. I would also award pedigree points, from what I’ve observed, to farmed salmon from Ireland. Farmed salmon from Chile is a relatively new category–but some South American fish can be quite impressive. The one farming spot that continues to make me feel I may not have the best raw material before me is the Pacific Northwest–which undoubtedly has more to do with the species of fish than with the fish farming itself.

The Curing. The first important step in the actual production of smoked salmon is curing the fish, which always consists of applying salt. There is a good, practical reason behind this: the salt dries out the fish, removing water, which inhibits the growth of bacteria. In the process, both taste and texture are mightily affected.

The specifics of the cure vary a great deal. Most high-quality salmon is dry-cured (also known as Scottish-style curing); in this process, the salt is rubbed on. This requires individual labor on each fish, and a careful eye to determine just when each fish has had enough time in the salt cure. A cheaper, less labor-intensive process is to soak many salmon simultaneously in a salty brine. Most connoisseurs feel that this method is too effective–toughening the salmon, and leading to a salty, washed-out flavor. Dry-curing is definitely the glam option.

The other big curing issue is the addition of other ingredients. The most common “extra” is sugar–which, when added judiciously, can add a subtle, practically undetectable impression of sweetness that improves the finished product. Of course, in a time of wanton culinary creativity, all kinds of other things  are getting thrown into cures these days, but I find that most of them detract from the purity of the salmon. I do confess that if a Scottish producer who knows what he’s doing wants to rub some 12-year-old Single Malt Whisky on his fish, I’m not going to try and stop him.

The Smoking. This is huge, obviously, and has a million subtleties for specialists. But the two things resulting from smoking choices that anyone will notice are 1) texture of the fish (dry? firm? oily? tender?) and 2) degree and taste of smokiness. Here are some of the choices that have an effect on these things.

A fundamental decision for smokers is hot-smoking or cold-smoking. Hot-smoking, which is very popular in the Pacific Northwest, is more like cooking the fish, and results in a firmer, drier, flakier, “cooked” texture that does not slice well. Cold-smoked salmon is the velvety stuff and is what most people mean when they ask for smoked salmon. Cold-smoking is done at temperatures roughly between 80 degrees and 90 degrees. Higher, and the “cooked” quality sets in; lower and you have something not much different from sashimi. The precise temperature chosen by the producer makes a big difference.

Cold smoked salmon from Alaskan King Crab Co.

Hot smoked salmon from Williams-Sonoma

Next choice: how long do you smoke it? Opinions vary, and therein lies the art. You hear everything from as little as eight hours to as many as 48 hours. Obviously, less time brings a “rawer” texture and a milder smoke flavor.

Another key factor is the smokehouse itself: is the salmon in a confined space, where it’s likely to pick up lots of smoke flavor, or is it smoked in an airy space, where the smoke will have less of an effect?

A fundamental factor is the type of wood used in the smoking process. In the cheapest smoked salmon production, sawdust is burned. Quality producers eschew this. Chunks or chips of hardwood, usually oak, are used throughout Europe. Some Scottish producers talk of burning Scotch whisky barrels. Other producers mention other woody exotica, such as juniper. American smokers, principally east of the Mississippi, sometimes use hickory. And the pacific Northwest is famous for the use of alderwood–a Native American smoking tradition.

When you juggle all of these factors together, you arrive at the smoke profile of the finished product.

Where Smoked. In this category, I’m sure that geography is destiny. Let’s look at six centers of smoked salmon production:

*Scotland. Once again, the Highlanders come out on top–and here it’s nurture, not nature, that makes the difference. The Scots are simply the great artisans of the smoked salmon world. Producers of many modern luxury products, including smoked salmon, have found ways to cut corners, to make good-enough products with a little less care. I would argue that a higher percentage of smoked salmon producers hold on to the old ways in Scotland than anywhere else in smoked salmondom–curing the fish a little more carefully, and keeping the smoking temperatures low so that the silkiest product is achieved. There are small smokehouses dotting the Scottish countryside that have been in operation since the 16th century. To me, the classic Scottish smoked salmon has wide bands of fat, beautifully resilient texture, and a complexity of flavor that, at its best, is unmatched elsewhere.

A luscious, wide-fat-band slice of smoked salmon from Petrossian

Perhaps the Scotch whisky sometimes used in the cure, and the old Scotch whisky barrels sometimes burned in the smoking process, are factors that add the winning edge of flavor. The smoke itself in great Scottish smoked salmon can be integrated so well that the salmon tastes as if it had been born smoked.

*Ireland. Ireland is also more artisanal than most places–but the finished product, in my tasting experience, does not reach quite the heights of magnificence that the best Scottish salmon does. I think we have a style difference here. I don’t think the Irish are enamored of the rich, lush, wet, oily texture that the Scots seem to prefer. At its most typical–and I hasten to add that regional styles today are less typical than they used to be–Irish smoked salmon is drier than Scottish smoked salmon, and a little smokier.

*Norway. Norway, pioneer in salmon farming, has become the land of mass smoked-salmon production. The good news is that consistency’s a real strength here; the bad news is that the commercial Norwegian operations churn out product that, at its best, doesn’t compare with the best of Scottish hand-crafting. Look for good, rich, well-made fish that are generally a little softer than their Scottish-Irish counterparts, and a little less deep in flavor.

*Eastern North America. Some producers made a huge success. North Americans have become increasingly adept at home-made versions of European classics (goat cheese, beer, foie gras, etc.)–and smoked salmon is no exception. Smoked salmon from this region isn’t necessarily great–but it certainly can be among the greatest in the world. Hard to generalize about style.

*Western North America. There are also fine artisans in this part of the continent–but unless they’re working with Atlantic salmon (and the vast preponderance of them aren’t) their product is not up to eastern and European standards. There is one bright spot, however: a lot of western salmon is smoked, in the Native American tradition, over alderwood, which lends a bewitching sweet-fruity accent to smoked salmon.

Photos Via: The Atlantic Salmon Trust, Samaki.Inc,Alaskan King Crab Co., Williams-Sonoma, Petrossian Blog

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, November 2001.

I‘m in the Tawny Port Minority…and proud!

If you’re a lover of Port–the great, sweet, fortified wine from Portugal, which has many different sub-types–you are supposed to love Vintage Port above all. It is the rarest Port. It is the most expensive Port.

But is it the best Port? Not in my tasting experience.

Vintage Port is made, as most Port is not, from the grapes of a single outstanding vintage. Those grapes are usually superior grapes, and they usually come from a variety of top vineyard sites owned by the producer. The thing that’s unusual about Vintage Port is the short amount of time it spends in barrels after it’s made: only two years or so. When it gets bottled at that point, usually without filtration, it has hardly aged, is still a massive, corpulent, deep-purple thing. The “more-is-more” bunch understands this kind of wine all the way. The theory is that if you let it continue to age in the bottle–say, a good 30 or 50 years–at some point it will become merely red, not purple any longer, its 20% alcohol will have slipped into the background, and its rough flavors will have become harmonious and complex.

For me, there’s just one problem: in all the times I’ve tasted aged Vintage Port, I’ve never once said “Aha! This one is perfect! This is what the textbook told me to expect!” They’re either too hot, too tannic, too monochromatic, too monolithic, or too too.

The transforming moment for me was a lunch in Portugal’s Douro Valley, where Port is produced, about 15 years ago. For the group of American and British wine writers with whom I was travelling, the Port guys pulled out all the stops–and a couple of 60-year-old Vintage Ports. They also pulled out a couple of 60-year-old Tawny Ports. The Anglos started writhing in their chairs when they saw the VPs, quickly helped themselves to glasses of them, and completely ignored the Tawnies on the table. Our Portuguese hosts, I was startled to see, did exactly the opposite. I was sitting next to one, and I asked him why. “Because,” he said, as if he’d been down this road before,” to us, Vintage Port is wine. But Tawny Port is Port.”

That did it for me, I started paying more attention to this amazing beverage, so overlooked in England and America–and eventually became a Tawny guy all the way.

Tawny Port is vastly different from Vintage Port. It is in the larger category known as “Wood Port”–which means it spends much more time in barrels than Vintage Port does. Therein lies the key distinction. Those years in barrels–sometimes 40 or more–completely transform the character of the wine. Because in-the-barrel Tawny comes in contact with much more air than it would have in a bottle, it changes color, from purple to brown. It also changes flavor. Vintage Port is a matter of red fruits, jam, related aromas; Tawny Port is a matter of vanilla, butterscotch, caramel, nuts. Vintage Port is macho, aggressive, almost as violent as it is violet; Tawny Port is gentle, smooth, as reassuring as a lovely old melody.

And…I love it with food in a way I’ve never loved Vintage Port with food.  The latter has its moments with strong cheeses, to be sure, and with chocolate–but it has so many edges you have to be careful what you choose to eat. Tawny Port, much more accommodating, is one of my favorite wines in the world with all kinds of cheese (I try to match younger, sweeter ones with firm cheeses, and older, drier ones with creamier cheeses.) I love Tawny with all manner of nuts, and nut desserts. Dried fruits and dried fruit desserts are also wonderful Tawny-mates. And, any creamy dessert that offers a Tawny-like range of flavors–like Crème Brulée–is perfect with you know what.

And that’s not to mention a magnificent glass of old Tawny by the fireplace as dessert. For make no mistake: the month of December is Tawny Prime Time. Buy plenty right now–because if you don’t get to them by the time the weather warms up again, they’ll hold magnificently for years.

I’ve been tasting Tawnies ever since that fateful day in the Douro, and have developed a stable of favorites over time. I’m listing them for you, broken down into the six main categories of Tawny Port you’re likely to see in your wine shop. Distribution of Tawny Port across the country is decent, so you have a real chance of finding many of these nearby.

Basic Tawny
The youngest and least expensive Tawnies of all are also the least Tawny-like. At some Port houses, they really aren’t Tawny at all–they are blends of young red Port with white Port. But even the real deal isn’t that Tawny-like. Because Basic Tawnies haven’t spent that much time in barrels–they are really Tawnies-in-training–they often seem like Ruby Port/Tawny Port combinations. They may be more red than they are brown, and–along with all that great, developing caramel, they may offer quite a lot of plum-cherry-red fruit aroma and flavor. They’re good Tawnies for starters, but they’re not profound.

10-Year-Old Tawny

The tradition in Portugal is to hold on to the better Tawnies in barrels for some years, and then to blend them together. If the blended Tawnies have an average age of 10 years, then it is legal to call those wines “10-Year-Old-Tawny.” If you like to have vestiges of red fruit hanging out in your Tawny, this is the category for you; you begin to glimpse the brownish magnificence that lies just ahead, but you can still feel the wine‘s fiery youth. This is a big upgrade in quality from Basic Tawnies.

20-Year-Old Tawny

At 20 years old (again, average age of blended wines), Tawnies are still very concentrated and vital–but they have now knit together into something that could never be mistaken for anything else. They are gloriously brown, and, often, stuffed with toffee-butterscotch-walnut flavors. These are the favorites of those who love vigorous Tawny tastes.

30-Year-Old Tawny

Some Tawny aficionados believe that after 20 years in the barrel Tawny Ports start drying out–not a good thing, to them. Me, I do believe that older Tawnies are drier–but they bring a whole new range of exciting flavors to the table, like the amazing taste of old butter that you get in old Madeira. When a Tawny Port has aged in barrels for 30 years (again, average age of blended wines), it is often on the cusp between the vigor of a 20, and the gentler complexity of a 40. In my Tawny-buying life, I’ve usually gone for either the 20 or the 40–but there are some wonderful 30-somethings out there that have come together just perfectly.

40-Year-Old Tawny

If you like to see just how far a Tawny can go in developing layers of unexpected flavor–cheese? truffles? earth?–you have to go all the way to the big-bucks 40-Year-Old (again, average age of blended wines.) These are without doubt the most complex Tawnies on the market. But not everyone loves them–because they’ve often traded in their vigor and richness for that extra complexity. I love ‘em.

Colheitas (pronounced coal-YAY-tuhs)

One of the most intriguing Tawny Port categories is Colheitas–Tawny Ports made in a single vintage, then held in barrels for many, many years. They vary wildly. The greatest Tawny Port I’ve ever tasted–the amazing 1963 Krohn–was a Colheita. But some Colheitas can seem thin and uninteresting next to the Tawnies with an indication of age (like the 10-year-olds, 20-year-olds, etc.) Following suit, you’ll find prices all over the map as well. Shop carefully.

Photos Via: Sandeman, Warre’s, KLWines, Colheitas

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, November 2003.

Oh, ’tis turkey season, to be sure. The amount of turkeys on America’s tables on Thanksgiving Day will be truly staggering; nary a household in the land will lack the Big Bird, our National Trussed, on that November Thursday. And is the seasonal turkey onslaught over then? No siree, Tom. Left-over turkey sandwiches will take us into December…then, quite a few menu-challenged household heads…will choose a turkey reprise for Christmas dinner.

For about a month, every year, it’s the same thing, over and over again: turkey overload time in America.

Now, I’ve no doubt that some people really do like turkey. I’ve also no doubt that what many people really like is the turkey ritual, without actually liking the bird itself very much. In fact, it has become pretty standard among foodies to take a shot at turkeys, and I don’t mean with BBs. “It’s dry,” they say. “It’s stringy. It’s bland. It’s boring.” And, putting aside my own life-long enjoyment of the turkey ritual, I would have to agree with all of the luke-warm gastronomic reactions. Oh, I can enjoy a well-prepared turkey…but it sure ain’t my fave. If it were, for any of us…there’d be a whole heck of a lot more turkey in the oven in those months that don’t start with an N or a D.

So, in recent years, foodies–myself included–have been taking evasive action. One path, quite logically, is to find a better turkey than the supermarket ones so widely used at holiday time. This year, however, I focused on what I think is the most exciting path of all- the turkey alternative!

Here are my top three picks for a festive bird, not a turkey, an un-turkey…that delivers more gastro-thrills than any turkey ever could!

Guinea Hen

Quantity Needed for Six People: 2-3 birds

Cooking Method: 500 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the bird reaches 135-140 degrees internally

Source: Grimaud Farms, Stockton, CA

Wine Choice for Simple Guinea Hen:  fairly delicate red wine, like a five-year old Chinon from the Loire Valley

Well, it’s a glorified chicken that tops my list–but there’s a lot more glory than chicken to it! The bird is a native, logically enough, of the West African country of Guinea. From its English-language name, you would assume it’s a female bird (that’s what “hen” usually designates). There is another name you sometimes see–”guinea fowl”–and you might assume that that’s another bird, or that perhaps it’s the male version of the guinea hen. All of this speculation would be wrong! The names “guinea hen” and “guinea fowl” both refer to either female or male versions of the same bird! The males are a little larger, but the plumage is identical. In France, where guinea hen is wildly popular, they avoid the gender issue in the name by calling the bird pintade (or pintadeau, if the bird is young); ditto for Italy, where guinea hen is called faraona.

Textbooks will often tell you how much the guinea hen is reminiscent of the chicken–but I prefer to dwell on the differences! For starters, the meat of the guinea hen is generally darker than the meat of the chicken, probably because the bird has never been fully domesticated. Along with this comes deeper, gamier flavor; the plump breast meat is almost as dark as dark-meat chicken–and amazingly flavorful for breast meat.

All of the meat was silky, moist, tender–which made me distrust the oft-repeated claim that guinea hen has 50% less fat than chicken; if anything, to me, it tasted richer. Some books say you must bard guinea hen, or lard it, or wrap it in bacon. No way–at least not THIS bird, cooked THIS way. Just make sure not to overcook it; the merest hint of rosiness remaining in the meat is a good thing.

Other features that knocked me out were the low-cartilage nature of the leg, the insane meatiness of the wing, and the wonderfully crisp and flavorful skin.

Female Muscovy Duck (Barbary Duck)

Quantity Needed for Six People: 3 birds

Cooking Method: super-slow roast is best

Source: Grimaud Farms, Stockton, CA

Wine Choice for Simple Muscovy Duck : pretty rich red wine, like a 3-4-year-old Cahors from southwest France

Now that we’ve all become much more duck-sophisticated, a couple of duck breeds have become foodie-household words. Everyone is aware of the glories of Moulard duck, the “mule,” the workhorse duck of foie gras, confit, and magret producers. Many consumers are also familiar with the Pekin duck (not “Peking Duck,” which is a dish), originally from China, which became the breed embraced by producers of Long Island duck.

Me…I’d been fascinated for years by the widespread presence on menus in France of “Barbary,” or “Barbarie” duck (usually called “Muscovy” in these parts); if I’d seen it there often, I reasoned, it must be somethin’ good. Got that right. I finally tried a Barbary duck of the female persuasion–and it absolutely flipped me out. Male Muscovy ducks are twice the size–but, according to what I hear, not as delectable.

The Muscovy, unlike the Moulard, or the Pekin…is actually from the New World. Its origins are thought to be in Central America (maybe the French love it because it seems exotic? they do also refer to it as canard d’Inde, or “duck of the indies.”) The skin is a bit thinner than the skins of other ducks, and the meat–which is quite red–is 40% less fatty than the meat of Pekin duck is.

It also makes the best long-cooked roast duck I’ve ever had. And I’m a certified long-cooked roast duck freak.

First of all, however, for those who are not freaks for long-cooking, I roasted the duck a shorter amount of time to see what the meat would be like. At medium-rare, 125 degrees, the meat is slightly grainier in chew than the meat of other ducks–but it is has a lovely, sweet beefiness. As the temperature rises to 160 degrees (medium-well), the meat keeps its sweetness and improves in texture; it seems lighter and juicier than other duck meat.

However, if you do buy a Muscovy, and if you can put in the hours…please roast this thing for five hours.

What comes out of the oven after five is the crispiest duck I’ve ever tasted, perhaps owing to the thinness of Muscovy skin. The part of the skin over the leg-thigh assembly was like duck and pork candy. The leg and thigh in general were extraordinary–velvety, tender, deep and gamy in flavor. It is worth roasting this duck just to get at those parts. I must confess, the breast was a bit of a come-down; the breast of the fattier Pekin duck survives the five hours better. But, if you cut the breast into slices, each slice with a ring of crispy skin around it, the result is good. And…a lovely brown sauce on the breast wouldn’t hurt either! For the miraculous leg and thigh–well, I’d advise simply boning them and serving them all by themselves. Lastly, don’t be in a hurry to get that carcass off your cutting board; the Muscovy has all kinds of hidden skin-and-meat pockets that are wonderful to pick at.

Goose

Quantity Needed for Six People: one bird

Cooking Method: super-slow roast is best

Source: Dartagnan 

Wine Choice for Simple Goose: very rich and tannic red wine, like a big, young California Cabernet

Goose comes with lots of baggage, good and bad.

The good baggage is the bird’s romantic history. In the ancient world, Egyptians, Greeks and Romans were famous goose-lovers. Germans and French set the tone in the Middle Ages; when a city was conquered in battle, the standard reward for the chief of the cross-bow team was a goose. A bit later–on September 29, 1588, in fact–Elizabeth I was feasting on goose when she heard about the defeat of the Spanish Armada; she decreed that forever after Englishmen should eat goose on that date. By the time Dickens was writing “A Christmas Carol,” the bird was even more famously eaten on the title’s eponymous holiday. “Bob said he didn’t believe there was ever such a goose cooked,” Dickens wrote of the Cratchit Christmas meal. “Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration.”

To modern chefs, “universal admiration” does not seem a readily attainable goal; the bad goose baggage is fear–fear of universal scorn, in fact. “Your goose is cooked” means trouble–but, to most home chefs, the very act of cooking that goose is even more trouble! And rightly so–because we’ve all had geese with tons of fat pouring out from under the skin, paradoxically dry meat, and a low proportion of meat to bone, at that.

There are three factors to consider in order to avoid these problems and to cook a goose that, in fact, brings wild “universal admiration”: 1) the quality of the bird itself; 2) the cooking method; and 3) the serving method.

As to the quality: I would recommend a domesticated goose- wild geese, due to their extra exertion, are more likely to be lean and stringy. To insure the best possible roast, get a domesticated goose that’s between 8 and 12 pounds; any older than that, and a wet cooking method, like braising, becomes advisable. Happily, geese lay their eggs in the spring–and the young geese are at a perfect weight just in time for Christmas!

When I cook a goose, they undergo the long, slow-cooking method that I originally invented for duck. Perfect! This yields the most tender goose I’ve ever tasted–not to mention one with a wonderfully deep, rich flavor, something like beefy duck. The most amazing feature of all was the ultra-crispy skin–and the fact that it stayed crispy for an hour after cooking!

For serving, I like to make sure that all of the meat on everyone’s plate is covered with wide patches of crispy skin. Some of the skin will be attached to the meat (as on the breast), but some will be skin you’ve removed from non-meaty spots that have a good cover of excess skin. That works out fine–because some of the meaty spots aren’t covered with skin. Just mix and match on everyone’s plate, creating skin-topped bundles of goose meat.

This is one bird that I really like to accompany with a sauce–principally because the breast meat, not matter how perfect the bird and the cooking, still is a little dry.

Photos Via: BigStockPhoto

Rosengarten Classic. Originally Published: Rosengarten Report, April 2001.

Dim Sum that Really Touch My Heart
Cantonese Dim Sum…a magical and wonderful collection of little bites…that can be completely confusing to order!  Many friends skip Dim Sum completely because they just don’t know what to choose.  If you go to a place that wheels carts around, ordering is more of a point and hope; you can just point at what looks good—and hope it’s delicious. If you go to a dim sum place where you order from the kitchen, however, you really need to know your dim sum.

This guide to my faves–which goes beyond the standard potstickers and shu mai includes transliterations of the Cantonese names in case you’re in a no-English zone (which is where the best dim sum usually is!)

Ha Gow
The famous shrimp dumplings, sometimes called “crystal” dumplings because of the pearly, see-through wrapper made from wheat flour with added tapioca. Light, slightly sticky, naturally sweet, wonderful symphony of textures.

Cheung Fun
Flat, egg roll-sized rolls of specially made rice dough, also pearly (it’s a ground rice/potato starch mixture steamed on white cotton sheets). Think manicotti in shape…The steamed rolls are usually filled with shrimp or beef. Slippery and delightful. Soy sauce drizzled on top. Hard to handle, so cut into pieces with your chopstick before picking up.

Seen Juk
Amazing, stretchy, resilient, chewy-tender, yellowish sheets industrially made from bean curd used in different ways as dim sum wrappers. You must try them. I’ve enjoyed them pan-fried (with ground pork and vegetables inside) and deep-fried and even had some great ones with pieces of shrimp and stalks of Chinese greens inside.

Lor Bak Go
Commonly called “turnip cake,” this great, jiggly, quivering individual-portion square is actually made from grated daikon, rice flour and wheat flour. The “cake” usually contains some funky protein, like Chinese sausage or dried shrimp. It is one of the great dim sum house production numbers; a rolling griddle comes by your table, where the square is cooked to a crusty brown on the outside–a wonderful contrast to the turnip-y custard-like mass within.

Tsa Yeun Dau Fu
Another texture trip. Little cubes of soft bean curd stuffed with something, usually shrimp or pork then deep-fried–creating a light, crunchy chew on the outside, and a meltingly tender, custard-like chew on the inside.

Si Jup Pai Guat
I love these little bite-sized bits of spare ribs (but don’t bite too quickly–they have bones.) Tossed with fermented black beans, garlic, sugar, diced red pepper and steamed; there’s usually a little cornstarch in the mix, which creates a slightly mucillaginous texture that I love. Don’t miss these miniature flavor bombs.

Ngao Yuk
Dim sum neophytes are sometimes surprised by these–because they seem less “Chinese” than other items. Basically, they are golfball-sized meat balls made from beef–steamed, reddish inside, with a wonderful, haunting flavor, enhanced by a little lemon rind. Most important is the texture–soft, spongy, slightly gummy, not unlike a certain type of un-crumbly meat loaf. The Chinese connection is further weakened by the traditional drizzle: Worcestershire sauce. But the whole package, despite its Western leanings, is delicious and another must-order.

Photos Via: Bigstockphoto, kake.dreamwidth