Fennel is one of the oldest known cultivated plants. Originating in the Mediterranean and the Middle East and then spreading with conquering civilizations, it is now naturalized in much of the world; so much so that it is considered an invasive weed in parts of America and Australia.
A handy little weed, indeed. Observe, in no particular order, some of its historical and modern medicinal uses, applications, and ascribed attributes: Pliny the Elder said it helped restore eyesight. Others claimed it increases the flow of mothers’ milk. Fennel cures kidney stones, relieves flatulence, increases photosensitivity. It’s an antidote to poisonous mushrooms and protection against witchcraft. It is a treatment for nausea, spasms, inflammation, hiccups, liver problems, lung congestion, bloating. Fleas hate fennel. It is a symbol of heroism, aids longevity, embodies flattery, is an aphrodisiac, a rejuvenator, suppresses appetite, stimulates appetite, is a diuretic, antioxidant, prevents cancer, gives strength, overcomes hunger, averts gout, bolsters courage, aggravates dermatitis.
And that’s just a sample of the first page of something like six million google results. I don’t have that kind of time. One of you jobless, filthy, web hippies can read all of them and get back to me. Don’t let me know what you find out.
Oh, one more thing, the Italian word for fennel is finocchio. Why should you care? Finocchio is also, through some cultural wormhole I don’t understand, the Italian insult equivalent of calling someone gay. Immature? Most likely. Useful? You tell me how useful the next time some asshole in an Armani suit riding a Vespa cuts you off.
Also, fennel makes a nice salad.
While fennel is primarily a winter vegetable, it is usually available year round in baby form. It is sometimes called “anise” in American markets. I serve this salad with sticky, rich, braised meats as a sharp counterpoint. It works equally well as cool, summer picnic fare.
1 large bulb fennel, sliced paper thin (use a mandolin if you have one)
1 small red onion sliced just as thin
30 ish whole green olives
1 or 2 stalks curly-leaf parsley (out of cooking fashion, I know)
3 tablespoons good olive oil
juice of 1 lemon
salt and pepper
Pick the small bunches of parsley from the tips of your stalks and mix them with the onions and fennel. Dress with lemon juice to keep fennel from browning. Crush the olives and remove the pits. Mix olives into salad, season, and finish with olive oil just before serving. Salt (including salt from the olives) will draw moisture from the fennel, making the salad limp and soggy; finish this dish at the last possible second.
It's a Miracle!
Not So Wurst
Livers. What good can I possibly have to say about these metallic, acrid, little organs? They are, well, they are what they do: blood filters. And that’s what they often taste of – hemoglobin and bile, iron and acid. I eat them, sometimes.
I’m not fond of all livers. Calf liver is far too metallic. That of a rabbit is harshly unpleasant on the nose. Fish livers are generally bitter. Sautéed chicken liver is passable. Duck more so.
The most famous of livers, and tastiest, is, of course, that of the goose: foie gras. In some cases these poor fowl are force-fed alcohol and fatty foods so that their livers become swollen and succulent. Many people feel bad about this. To them I say: “It is an evolutionary disadvantage to be tasty.” Remember this, readers, as I will return to it like a mantra.
I’m getting a bit side-tracked. No goose livers here. My favorite way to eat liver is to cook a mixture of duck and chicken livers lightly in butter with a mix of bacon and onions and mushrooms and brandy and port and spices like cinnamon and star anise and then blend the absolute fuck out of them before passing them through a fine sieve into pots and cooling them until they set, capped with butter or duck fat. I eat the resulting pâté on toasted sourdough with cornichons and red onion marmalade.
If you think I’m going to give away my pâté recipe just like that you must be stupid.
I’ll tell you how to make red onion marmalade sometime soon. I promise. 
Exact Measurements
My grandmother taught me to love food. I struggle, honestly, to remember her outside of the kitchen, where, when I was too small to peer over the counter-top, she provided a designated stool, so that I might stir (and taste, when required). It was a joy to watch her move in the kitchen, her diminutive figure seemingly physically attached to the food she was preparing. A pinch of a certain spice, handful of an unidentified white powder, deft flick of the spoon – it was very much like some kind of benevolent witchcraft, and I was an eager apprentice.
It was probably in learning to cook risotto that I discovered I might have a problem. It occurred to me that she didn’t measure anything. I’d been idling my tenth or eleventh winter away with a chemistry set in our basement. None of the experiments worked quite right if my measurements weren’t exact. I became master of beakers and eyedroppers, menisci and dilutions. By extension, if I wanted to reproduce what grandma was cooking, I was going to need some concrete figures.
She, ever obliging, provided. Cups of this, half cups of that, teaspoon of such. And mine was never right. What she didn’t explain, and I now know (and what you must find painfully obvious) is that her recipes are variable because the ingredients are variable. One tomato is more acidic than the others you’ve just brought home, even though they are all on the same truss. This bag of rice has a much lower starch content than the other brand. This jalapeno has no heat at all. Must be the saltiest batch of mussels I’ve ever steamed open.
Cook and taste, adjust and taste, adjust and taste; it’s so simple. I’m a slow learner.
On the other hand, desserts – “Pastry” as the trade is collectively called – were something I could understand. They require exact measurements and precise cooking temperatures to achieve consistent results. Pastry, I said to myself with a satisfied nod, is science. And so nearly abandoned savory cooking in the pursuit of charts and graphs.
Now, ironically, as a professional cook I find that I am hopeless at any kind of pastry work. I lack a certain, required touch. My shortcrust is never quite supple enough, my sponges a bit too dense, my crème caramel never set.
That’s not to say I can’t bake anything at all. I make a mean spice bread.
This moist, spicy, richly-sweet loaf is ghostly reminiscent of gingerbread. It pairs equally well warm with coffee or as crisps with salty cheeses. I sometimes serve it with pâté.
Pain d'épices
300 ml milk
200 g muscovado sugar
500 g honey
500 g flour
½ tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground toasked aniseed
½ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp salt
2 egg yolks
2tsp bicarb soda (baking soda)
1 tbsp water
Heat milk and sugar until dissolved, remove from heat. Stir in honey (if the milk is too hot the honey will curdle the milk). In a bowl mix flour, spices and salt, and then fold this into the milk mixture. Cool and leave overnight in your refrigerator.
The next day remove the batter from the fridge and bring to room temperature. Preheat oven to 140ºC (280ºF). Mix yolks, bicarb soda, and water and then stir into flour and milk mix. Pour into tins lined with baking paper (I use two 2inX2inX10in loaf tins; just be sure not to fill your loaf tin more than half full, as this will rise quite a bit) and bake covered with foil for 30 min and then uncovered for approximately 90 min – or until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Turn out onto racks to cool.
This bread freezes well (and slices better frozen).
To make crisps, slice the bread as thinly as possible (try freezing it first) and then lay the slices out on a baking paper-lined tray. Bake these in a 150ºC (300ºF) oven until they begin to appear dry, but before they start to darken in color. Upon cooling they will become incredibly brittle.
On a Sandwich
Americans have, it has been argued, no culinary history. The great cooking traditions of various European countries are, undoubtedly, much, much older, better documented, widely exported, and in some cases, highly formalized. Collectively, they are all born of necessity; poverty foods elevated and refined over hundreds or thousands of years until they reach the status of ‘Cuisine.’
America, with its 400 year colonial history, hasn’t had the time to develop what could be called a culinary history. The framework for an American Cuisine, however, has been firmly set out in a series of regional, poverty dishes. Consider, for example, the lowly hamburger. Originally served on toasted white bread, the meat patty was flavored with coffee and brown sugar. Recently, the burger has been elevated to fine-dining status – a slab of minced wagyu beef garnished with fresh black truffles and foie gras.
Caesar Salad, not yet 100 years old, has been adopted and adapted all over the world and is served, in deconstructed form, at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry.
There is such a depth of American dishes waiting to be seized upon, to be transformed into fine dinning fare. The po’ boy, clam chowder, corn bread, pulled pork, macaroni and cheese, apple pie, collard greens, hotdogs, potato salad, key lime pie, and so many more. No culinary history? Maybe. A cuisine? It’s only a matter of time.
Here’s one more to add to the list of potentials. A sandwich invented and obsessively consumed whilst living in L.A. on a tiny street with its own claims to fame. My particular block of N. Ivar Ave. in Hollywood was once home to author Nathaniel West and also hosts the building ‘Alto Nido,’ home to the fictional Joe Gillis, main character in the classic film “Sunset Boulevard.”
One day it will be remembered as the birthplace of “The Ivar.”
pastrami, thinly sliced*
emmental or jarlsberg cheese, sliced
sliced pickled cucumbers
shredded iceberg lettuce
mayonnaise
seeded mustard
sourdough baguette
On the bottom half of the split baguette, pile the thinly sliced pastrami and top with cheese. Toast this along with the top half of the bread under the grill (broiler) until the cheese melts and the top half of the baguette has browned slightly. Add the pickles to the top of the cheese, cover with lettuce. Smear the top half of the bread with mustard and mayo, salt and pepper to taste and then slap the sucker together. It should be a wonderful combination of sweet, salty, crunchy, chewy, sour, peppery, smoky, yum-yum.
* In this case, I cured and smoked my own pastrami. I’ve had this five-year, sporadic argument with my various butchers about what cut of beef I should be using to make pastrami. It goes something like this: “I want a ‘beef plate.’” “A what?” “A ‘beef plate’. It’s a cut of meat.” “Never heard of it. What is it for?” “I’m going to make pastrami.” “Oh, then you need silverside.” Fatless, characterless, flavorless, chunk of meat arrives the following day and invariably transforms into pastrami with characteristics eerily similar. I now know that ‘beef plate’ is called ‘point end brisket’ here in Australia, and it makes a fine pastrami. I’ll post some other time on how to cure and smoke meats.
Infermità Mentale a Napoli
Once, whilst in Naples, I completely lost my mind.
I wasn’t alone. My then-fiancée was there, encouraging, nay, partaking in my madness.
It all started so well: stumbling out of our pensione early morning to discover that our side-street doorway which, less than twelve hours before, had appeared so dodgy, now opened onto a lively local fresh fruit and fish market. Somehow, with our terrifyingly limited Italian we managed to purchase a still-warm loaf of ciabatta and somehow receive a free bunch of san marzano tomatoes (more on these, the greatest tomatoes know to gods and men, later). I’m still not entirely sure that we didn’t steal them.
Regardless, armed with lunch, we were off to Pompeii.
Pompeii, as you know, is an entire city of ruins. What I didn’t (and you may not) understand is that it is an entire city of ruins. Ten thousand and a bit people lived there when Vesuvius erupted. The whole city hasn’t been excavated, but there is a something like three square shitloads to see, all of it on foot, walking on two-thousand-year-old cobbles.
It wasn’t all rough.
Sitting in the fourth or fifth row of the empty Pompeii coliseum, sharing perfumy tomatoes smeared onto torn chunks of wood-fire oven bread, moments after the strangely tear-chokingly beautiful experience of examining the empty interiors of once-buried brick ovens identical to the modern ones from which our pizzas were fetched the previous evening, and, presumably, our lunch loaf that morning, I suspected then, and know now, that I was, at that instant, living. I was also, however, about to plunge into a gut-driven insane hell fuled by a lust for elusive bivalves.
We walked the streets of the most famous ghost town for the rest of the day, ducking out only just before the gates were closed at sunset. A short train ride deposited us at Napoli Centrale exhausted and hungry in the dark, besieged by single-bulb North African take-away shops. That’s when she started talking about Mussels.
On her previous visit she and a friend had sat in a plaza eating a mixture of mussels, clams, cockles, snails and unidentified mollusks which were steamed open in a broth of white wine, tomatoes, garlic, and a touch of chili. All of this was served on trenches of toasted Italian sourdough. “Zuppa Di Cozzi” or mussel soup. We fast became obsessed with the idea.
Charged with a mission, our peasant’s lunch now eight or nine hours behind us, we set out on what became a three-hour foot tour of the dock-side suburbs of working-class Naples. One hour walking systematically up and down major streets. Not a single restaurant. Another hour spent, studying our tiny map, meandering from square to piazza to plaza on the incorrect assumption that major intersections must mean food. Finally weaving through narrow alleys, leaping out of the path of overloaded Vespas, we began to wonder, mumblingly, grumblingly, where in the hell do the locals eat out? Are there no restaurants in Napoli?
Then, mercifully, on an unlit corner, a restaurant. We approached, tentatively, desperately, rushing in our hesitation, as a desert wanderer to an oasis, not believing that finally we might eat. That’s when madness set in.
After over fourteen hours of walking, a meager lunch, mild dehydration, acute exhaustion, outright desperation, and extreme hunger, my wife and I eagerly read the English version of the menu posted outside what may be, as far as we knew, the only operating restaurant in all of Naples. And, in what can only be described as a microcosm of mass hysteria, we looked at each other and said “No.” No mussels on offer.
What followed was a delirious somnambulant nightmare, framed by exhaustion, anger, surrender, and hunger, until finally we found, hidden, unmarked, behind a massive government building, underneath a blacked-out sign, a menu with mussels.
Zuppa Di Cozzi
1 k mixed bivalves, bearded, purged, and otherwise cleaned
2 large tomatoes, rough dice
1 small chili, fine mince
3 cloves garlic, fine mince
½ tbsp butter
1 cup white wine
1 small loaf ciabatta, sliced thickly and grilled
½ lemon
parsley
Heat a heavy-based pot over high heat. Add a tablespoon of olive oil and sauté garlic and chili for 5 seconds. Add butter and then quickly add bivalves. Top with tomatoes, add wine, and quickly cover with tight-fitting lid. When mussels et al steam open – 3-5 min – reduce heat and add juice of half a lemon and a handful of chopped parsley. Season with cracked pepper (the shellfish should have provided enough salt themselves). Pour into warmed serving dish with toasted bread to dunk in.
Thyme and Love
This hardly counts as a post, I suppose, as it isn’t remotely a meal. It’s something more of a culinary love letter to my favorite cooking experience. There are a number of kitchen events I love. Once, for example, our fish monger delivered a whole crate of live Balmain bugs (an Australian slipper lobster typically delivered frozen or cooked) and my heart matched each erratic tail-flip from under their wet hessian sack. On another occasion, a fourteen-chef-strong, frenzied kitchen halted, silently, moments before lunch service to reverently share an over-sized omelet laced with the season’s first imported French chanterelle mushrooms. Then there was the spring when our butcher arrived, back door, one morning with a twinkle, a whole suckling pig and a lamb dangling from his two beefy hands.
There are so many more. Little moments of cooking joy; everyone pauses to observe a beautifully baked brioche; snapper arrive still stiff with rigor; a perfect dark chocolate soufflé elicits, as it rushes from oven to patron, gasps of pleasure from cooks and waiters alike.
My favorite culinary experience, which is so much more terribly mundane than any I’ve mentioned above, is the impetus behind this love letter. This is a sonnet to a scraggly herb with tiny, robust, blue-blushed leaves, filled with menthol-pine aromatics. My go-to flavor-enhancer, always lurking somewhere in my crisper, complement to nearly any savory dish: thyme.
When pan roasting most any food, I often employ my favorite flavor-infusing method. It goes something like this. Begin cooking (insert item here – quail, livers, mushrooms, scallops, parsnips, etc.) in a very hot pan with some oil. When they have begun to brown, reduce the heat slightly, add a knob of butter and, when this begins to foam, flip the item being cooked and quickly add a crushed clove of garlic and a sprig of fresh thyme.
This is where my favorite bit happens. Every sprig of thyme is a string of potential olfactory munitions. When you drop them into the nutty, foaming butter, each little, teardrop leaf swells in the heat until it bursts in a succession of miniscule explosions that are not unlike a string of fire crackers. A tiny celebration of flavor. But it is the aroma that moves me. It’s an incomparably rich and savory perfume reminiscent of family roasts and campfires and garden walks in the sun.
Sigh. How can I not fall in love?
In Defence of an American Classic
I have a confession to make. Recently, whilst trapped in an airport, faced with an overwhelming variety of underwhelming eateries, I ate a fast food cheeseburger. Shock, I know. I can only imagine what you are thinking about how my standards have slipped.
Even worse, I can honestly say the burger didn’t taste bad. Neither, however, did it taste good. It was, in fact, completely devoid of any kind of flavor, with the exception of the gherkin. This must be some sort of marvel of modern food science. How is it possible to make grilled meat, melted cheese, and a buttery bread roll taste like so much styrofoam? At least styrofoam has a bit of bite.
I can’t believe people like this stuff. I watched them, sitting in the departure terminal, mindlessly chewing away on a meal that tastes not unlike recycled paper pulp. As I contemplated the merits of this novel new use for office byproducts, I couldn’t help wondering how much processing must be involved in wringing the tastiness from this American classic. How is it that no one seems upset?
If, for instance, someone where to mass-produce and flog a flavorless cassoulet in France, or if a chain of drive-through pasta joints opened in Italy serving pallid ragouts over flaccid pasta, there would be riots. (To be fair, the French love a riot and will take to the streets if someone sneezes and the Italians are far too lackadaisical and unorganized to stage any kind of good riot, especially if it interferes with nap time.)
Why then is it ok for anyone to serve these bastardized piles of factory waste and call them hamburgers? I’m not suggesting you and a local gang of enraged, fork-wielding foodies go burn down your local McDonald’s (though I’ll conveniently look the other way if you so choose) but you should definitely send them a tersely worded email or something.
The experience left me craving a real burger.
Cheeseburger with Oven-Fries
Cheeseburger
300g burger mince
1 large brown onion, fine brunios
1 very ripe tomato, sliced
4 leaves crispy iceberg lettuce
2 cornichons, sliced
6 thin slices of a good melting chest (I use fontina)
2 burger buns, or lovely fresh-baked rolls
ketchup
mayonnaise
Sauté the Onions over medium heat in some oil until they caramelize. Set aside. Divide the mince into two balls and flatten into very thin disks that are slightly larger than the circumference of your bun – they will shrink when you cook them. Heavily salt and pepper both sides of the meat just before cooking. In a hot pan, using a little oil, cook the patty on one side until it is deep brown – gray meat tastes as bad as it looks. Flip the meat and lay the cheese on the cooked side so that it begins to melt. Meanwhile, lightly toast the buns under the grill (broiler). Begin to assemble the burger. On the bottom half of the bun smear the caramelized onions, transfer the cooked patty from the pan and top with lettuce, tomato, cornichons, and ridiculous amounts of ketchup and mayonnaise.
Oven-Fries
2 large baking potatoes, skin on, cut into fries
sea salt flakes
Preheat oven to 250º C (480º F) or as close to as your oven will go. Place fries into a small pot, cover with water and bring to a boil. Simmer for a few minuets until they are just soft. Drain and toss gently with vegetable oil, trying not to break them up. Place on a baking try lined with baking paper, salt and bake until crispy and brown, 20 – 30 minuets.
Three Hungry Chefs
Let’s forgo the usual preamble. The scene: Dinner at my house. Dramatis personæ Chef James, Chef Di, Chef Me. The Challenge: Each chef draws a course at random – starter, main, or dessert – one week prior to the dinner, without divulging the assignment to the other two chefs. In addition to the random dishes, each chef is given an ‘extra’ course to prepare – Di provides an appetizer, James a side for mains, and I a cheese course. Each brings matching wines. On arrival, with not a little jostling in my miniscule kitchen, we quickly get down to the business of eating.
Seared Scallop with Asparagus Velouté
Chef Di
Duck Breast Prosciutto and Pickled Cherry Salad with Bitter Greens and Roast Chestnuts
Chef Me
Slow-Roasted Pork Loin with Eschalot Purée and Red Wine Jus
Chef Di
I owe an apology to James here. My photos of your fantastic side dishes – Green Beans with Toasted Almonds and Beurre Noisette, and Sautéed Courgettes – didn’t turn out. Sorry mate.
Brie De Meaux with Mache, Muscatel ‘Tapenade,’ and Port Glaze
Chef Me
Lemon Tart with Strawberry Sorbet and Sablé ‘Sandwiches’
Chef James
Far too much food and wine. Wonderful.
No recipes this time, as most of the food isn’t mine. Maybe I’ll post on how to make Duck Breast Prosciutto some day…
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