Something's Burning...

There is an old joke in professional kitchens which states that chefs never burn anything – we only “over-caramelize” food. I think I've mentioned in a previous post that, as a rule, chef's burn, erm... over-caramelize a great deal of food. It's not something we are proud of, but it is defensible, as we cook in ovens at temperatures that professional welders shy away from; a second's distraction and you've created carbon. Besides, chef's are typically attempting what should be the work of three people, are doing so at lightning speed, and all on much less sleep that doctors recommend.

At any rate, a bit of burnt food is simply considered collateral damage. Hence the joke about over-caramelization (there are other standard burnt food jokes: “What's black and lives in your oven?” or, sung to the tune of Midnight Oil's 'Beds are Burning': “How can we sleep when the rice is burning?”)



By way of anecdote:

In my very first kitchen job, dish hand in a terrible local diner, I arrived one morning to find one of the ovens had been left on overnight. Upon inspection I discovered an entire tray of what were once baked potatoes; the fault of one of the night crew cooks. If you've never seen what happens to an Idaho russet after 14 hours in blazing oven, it is quite amazing. They dry out - without losing their shape and with only a slight coloration past what one would expect from a normal baked potato - dry out so completely that they become fossilized shells of potatoes, which, in cross section, display the most delicate, fibrous, crystalline structures. It occurs to me that the end product is not unlike a geode. We marveled for ages

In another kitchen one of our line cooks, Mathew, kept burning the brioche he was toasting during service, which was to be served with the chicken terrine. He must of torched an average of three slices to every one he managed to send out on a plate. I was especially concerned about this habit of incinerating brioche because I had to make to loaves for his section, and didn't know how I was going to keep up. Luckily the head chef stepped in: “Mathew! Get a bucket. No, a big bucket. Put it at your feet. Now, everything you burn goes into the bucket. DO NOT throw it out. At the end of the night, you eat the contents of the bucket.” Burning bread incidents plummeted.



I've been thinking about all this over-caramelized food in the context of one of my favorite childhood meals. Roast tomato focaccia. I am, you see, a great lover of poverty foods. I like stews and polenta and casseroles and rice of every description. I look forward to a braise with a great, salivating anticipation which I can muster for no steak. This is one of the main reasons I remember my grandmother's focaccia so fondly: it is terribly simple (perhaps to the point of being unauthentic), costs next to nothing to make, is filling, and, mostly, is really bloody tasty.

You may be asking what all this culinary nostalgia has to do with burning food. What I loved most about grandmother's focaccia were the roasted tomatoes. Before rolling out any dough she cooked thick slices of roma tomatoes in deep, metal trays, half submerged in olive oil, topped with sea salt and whatever herbs were at hand. These were later to be pressed into the risen focaccia dough. Joyfully, she would unerringly blacken the slices nearest the edge of the trays. These hotly-contested tomato morsels were far too dark to be baked again atop the bread. Grandpa and I were left to fight over them.

Black though they may have been, these tomatoes are, to this day, one of the most delectable items I have ever put past my lips. They are the most wicked combination of concentrated tomato, toasted thyme, sticky toffee, crunchy salt, rich oil, and mysterious smoke. All this is finished with a satisfying bitterness that is just short of too much. The only single comparable food item I can think of are pan drippings from a roast, the sort you scrape at greedily with your burning fingers while the meat is resting. Only these tomatoes are better. Much, much, better.

As if that weren't enough, the tomatoes which did make it onto the bread often gained a bit too much color in the second baking. Add to this the fact that the whole lot is drizzled with roast tomato-flavored olive oil, and I'm just about as happy as you can imagine.

Let's burn some food.



Focaccia With Roast Heirloom Tomatoes

When I saw this basket of mixed heirloom tomatoes at the market I thought of focaccia immediately. They've each a distinct flavor and texture, and made for a deliciously interesting lunch.

350g flour
200 ml +2 tbsp warm water
1 pkt yeast
2 tsp sea salt
4 tbsp olive oil

In a small bowl, combine the yeast with the 2 tbsp of warm water. Stand 5 minutes. In a large bowl combine about half the flour, all the water, the salt, the oil, and the yeast mixture. Mix this with a wooden spoon until a very soft, sticky dough forms. It will be far too soft to work by hand. Cover and let rest for half an hour. After half an hour add the remaining flour a bit at a time, stirring, until a ball of dough forms. You may not use all the flour.

Turn the dough onto a floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic – about 10 minutes. While kneading, add as little flour as necessary to prevent sticking. The dough should be quite soft. Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl, cover, and let rise till doubled – 1 to 1 ½ hours.

Preheat your oven to 220ºC. Punch the dough down, turn onto a floured surface, and knead once or twice. Cover with a floured cloth and rest 10 minutes. Lightly oil a deep sided 20x30cm baking sheet or a 30cm diameter cast iron skillet. Using your hands, gently push and stretch the dough until it fits your baking dish. Cover and allow to rise until doubled – about 1 hour.

Just before baking, gently press the roasted tomato slices (below) into the top of the dough, making indentations with your fingers as you do so. Pour any remaining olive oil from the roasted tomatoes over the top. Sprinkle generously with sea salt flakes and bake for 30 minutes, or until golden.

Roasted Tomato Slices

500 g tomatoes, stems removed
2 sprigs thyme, leaves only
olive oil

Preheat your oven to 180ºC. Slice the tomatoes into disks just less than 1 cm thick. Arrange these in lightly oiled, non-reactive trays (aluminum is a no-no, it will make the tomatoes taste of metal). Sprinkle with thyme and a liberal amount of salt and pepper. Pour enough olive oil around so that the slices are at least half, but never completely, submerged. Bake 30-45 minutes, or until the outer tomatoes begin to blacken and the rest have become slightly colored, shriveled, and in all ways delicious.