Every chef I know has a few favorite recipes tucked away in his or her brain. We keep them there as fall-backs, simple go-tos, safety nets. They are often our favorite dishes, are always simple, and usually only call for what most kitchens have lying around at any given time. When a friend arrives to dine in the restaurant, or when another dish is needed to fill space on the specials board, or when the chef gets a bit bored, these are the recipes that come to mind.
Most of my stand-bys have already appeared on this blog in one form or another. There's at least one more I keep in memory. It's a tea cake almost not fancy enough to be on a menu. I love the recipe itself because of the numerical symmetry, which is also one of the reasons I can remember it so easily. It is almost infinitely adaptable, as you can substitute any kind of nut meal for the almond, any sweet spices for the cinnamon, any berry (or most any fruit for that matter) for the raspberries, and any flavoring for the almond essence.
Memorize the basic recipe and you've dozens of different variations at your disposal, depending on what you've got lying around. Then, of course, you can change what you serve with the cake and the options become limitless. 
Almond and Raspberry Cake with Raspberry Compote
150g flour
150g sugar
150g almond meal
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp baking powder
pinch salt
150g butter
1 egg
1 tsp almond essence
200 raspberries
Mix the flour, sugar, almond meal, cinnamon, baking powder, and salt. Cut in the cold butter until the mixture resembles bread crumbs. Lightly whisk the egg and essence, and mix into the flour mixture to form a sticky dough. Butter and flour a 20cm springform cake tin. Spread half the mixture into the tin, sprinkle the raspberries over, and top with the remaining cake mixture. Bake at 180º for 1 hour. Cool. Sprinkle with powdered sugar or toasted almonds if desired. Serve with raspberry compote and double cream.
Alternately, you can use a muffin tin to make individual serves, as in the photo.
Raspberry Compote
100g raspberries
50 g sugar
1 Tbsp water
squeeze lemon juice
Bring all ingredients to a boil. Simmer gently until thickened.
Just one note: you can substitute frozen berries for both of these recipes with considerable success. Be sure let them thaw on a tray before you add them to either.
The Fall-Back
Emulsions, Emotions, and, Finally, A Bacon Sandwich
[Part III in the Homeric epic 'How to Make a Sandwich in Less Than Two Weeks']
About five years ago Australian scientist Ric Pashley discovered that oil and water do mix. That's right, DO mix. I know it sounds like you should be expecting a punchline, but it is, bizarrely, true. We've all seen how oil floats on water and we've experienced that when mixed together the two will eventually separate. Intuition and most scientists would tell you that, without stabilizers, you cannot suspend oil in solution. Turns out, however, that if you remove all the dissolved gas from a liquid, oil will spontaneously dissolve into it, and remain dissolved even when gas is reintroduced into the mixture, no stabilizers required. Who knew?
Why is this relevant to a food blog? Chef's spend a good deal of time trying to make oil and liquids mix. In the kitchen these mixtures are called emulsions. In general, egg yolks are used to overcome the tendency of water and oil to keep to themselves, but the method is far from failsafe. I know chefs, good chefs, who are terrified of the word emulsion. It brings instantly to mind the notoriously unstable, so-called, hot emulsions like bearnaise, hollandaise, and beurre blanc. These sauces only hold together in a very limited temperature range – too hot and they curdle, too cool and they solidify, destine to separate, or “split,” upon rewarming.
Cold emulsions are hardly any better. These include mayonnaise, aioli, and any number of dressings. While not as temperamental as hot emulsions, they are just as easy to botch. Add the merest touch too much oil, or add the correct amount of oil but at too great a speed and... splitsville. And let me tell you, once your emulsion visits splitsville, it's not coming back. Think of it like a retirement home for broken sauces and dressings. I can't count the times I've split an emulsion. Usually it happens at some desperate moment, when you really need the tartare sauce to be finished before service starts, when the caesar salad is already on order, just as you are plating the steak and reach for the sauce.
Imagine, then, a magical world where emulsions don't split, can't split. Where, simply through the virtue of your ingredients, your creamy combination of oil and vinegar will come together to form the sauce you once had to baby along delicately in a warm water bath. Sure, some of the craft involved in cooking – learning to work with finicky ingredients – will be lost. However, you tell me about 'craft' when your 5 liters of beurre blanc splits just at the 100-head function group walks in the door.
No doubt chefs like Blumenthal and Adrià will utilize the method first. I suppose that a stabilizer-free emulsion has applications in the manufactured food industry as well (you'll never have to shake a bottle of vinaigrette again). Some day the practice will reach everyday commercial kitchens. Until then I'll continue doing it the hard way, keeping my fingers crossed.
You'll have to do it the hard way as well. It's time to make mayonnaise.
Lemon Mayonnaise
1 egg yolk
250 ml veg oil (grape seed or safflower are best)
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 lemon
1 tsp dijon mustard
In a medium bowl whisk together the yolk, vinegar, juice from half the lemon, dijon, a pinch of salt, and a grind of pepper. While whisking, slowly, and I mean the barest trickle, pour the oil into the bowl, stopping the oil any time it looks as if it isn't being worked in to the emulsion.
As you pour the oil in, the mixture should grow thicker. If at any time the mayo suddenly becomes thin and oily, it's split and there is no saving it. Start again, and this time pour more slowly.
When all the oil is incorporated, taste and adjust the salt and lemon juice. The mayo should be quite tangy, glossy-smooth, with a hint of mustard, and nigh on perfect. After all, it is for the best sandwich in the whole bloody world.
The Best Sandwich In The Whole Bloody World
6 rashers home-cured bacon
2 slices sourdough thyme bread
1 perfectly ripe tomato, thinly sliced
3 leaves red oak lettuce (or other crisp, slightly bitter lettuce)
Lemon Mayonnaise (above)
Ok. You've (read “I've”) worked really damn hard to pull this sambo together, don't screw it up now.
Start by cooking the bacon. Lightly oil a cold, medium-sized fry pan. Place the bacon in, overlapping as little as possible, and set the pan over low heat. Cook the bacon very slowly; the aim is to melt out some of the fat, crisp up the rashers, and not burn the suckers. The relatively high sugar content in the bacon will allow it to burn faster than most store-bought bacon.
When the bacon is nearly ready, toast the bread. Drain the crisp bacon but do not let it cool too much.
Assemble the sandwich: one slice of toasted sourdough, liberal application of lemon mayonnaise, slices of tomato, sprinkle of sea salt, grind of pepper, warm and crisp bacon, cool and crisp lettuce, extra dollop of mayo, top piece of bread.
Angels will start singing now if you've done it correctly.
It takes nearly two weeks to make this sandwich and less than three minuets to eat it.
It is undoubtedly worth it.
A few notes:
1. Take the time to find a really good tomato. Try stealing one from your neighbor's garden just as it ripens, or failing that, get a vine ripened one at a market, preferably one that has never seen the inside of a fridge; tomatoes hate the cold.
2. Notice you are only using 6 slices of bacon but you have made a kilo or two. Keep the rest hidden. Don't share it with anyone. In fact, if someone asks you where you got this fantastic bacon with which you made your sandwich, the sandwich you won't shut up about, tell them you found it, and sadly, it is all gone. Then, in the deepest hours of the night, creep to your kitchen and eat all the porky goodness by yourself! Ha! Idiots! Mine! All mine!
3. I said “a few points” but I only really had two. Now it's three, but only because originally there were two and I felt I should point that out. My head hurts.
On Fermentation or How to Make a Sandwich in Less Than Two Weeks, II
[Part II in the 'Ultimate BLT' series]
I have something of a geeky hobby. I can hear you saying: “What? Just one?” Well, let me tell you, no one thinks you are funny, and I don't remember asking your opinion anyway.
My hobby: I brew beer.
I love the amber liquid. Tiny bubbles rising to form a raft of flavored foam, like the crema on a prefect espresso. Hops make me happy. I pour liquid malted barley over my breakfast porridge in the winter. My heart leaps at the hissss-POP! of a crown seal prying loose. I really love to drink beer.
This, nevertheless, is not why I brew beer. I make beer, and here's where it gets a bit geeky, because it makes me feel connected, that I am part of an ancient tradition which has its foundations in the birth of agriculture. Barley, the principle component of beer, was the first domesticated grain, followed closely by wheat. What most likely began as an accident involving stored grain getting wet and souring, quickly evolved into a complicated process of roasting, steeping, and fermenting grains. The result not only provided a way to store some of the nutritional value of the grain in a medium that acted as a preservative(i.e. alchohol), it made people feel pretty damn good too. And we've been making beer for 6000 years.
6000 years adds up to a lot of fermentation, but it's nothing compared to the nearly 12,000 years we've been making bread. Baking is rewarding in precisely the same way brewing is; the act bestows a great sense of connectedness that comes from practicing an ancient rite. Bread making is both a ritual and a life skill, and it's one of the most deeply satisfying activities I can think of.
The two procedures – baking and brewing – are intimately related. Their histories are inseparable; they use the same ingredients, similar techniques, even the language used to describe the manufacture of bread and beer are akin. Each, it seems to me, is an extension of the other. Knowledge of bread can be applied to brewing, and baking methods practiced in beer making.
When I knead dough, watch it rise, punch it down, bake it, eat it, I can't help but think of all the other loaves that have ever been made. All the men and women over time stirring and stretching and shaping. All the risen buns, the woodfired crusts, the chewy crumb. I imagine all the tearing of loaves, the mopped up soup, the stale breakfast toast. And I imagine that any one of those countless people would, were he or she to be transported into my kitchen, recognize instantly the continuation of that ancient rite.
The end result of both baking and brewing is essentially the same: a deeply human connection with a very basic part of our collective history.
So, were going to bake a loaf of bread for our ultimate sandwich. Why don't you run along and fetch me a beer?
One more thing... I've learned everything useful about making sourdough bread from Nancy Silverton's Breads From the La Brea Bakery. I can't recommend it highly enough. This is my favorite bread recipe, one I developed after baking from Nancy's book for some time.
Also, you need a sourdough starter for this recipe. If you don't have one, find someone who does and ask them for a bit. Once you have one, you can keep it going indefinitely.
500g flour
170g sourdough starter
250 ml water
5g sea salt flakes (about 2 tsp)
1 Tbsp thyme leaves, no stems
2 Tbsp olive oil
Place the flour in a large bowl and make a well in the centre of it. Pour the starter into this well and then add the water. Using your fingers stir, slowly bringing in flour from the edges of the well until a dough forms. You may not use all the flour. Turn the dough onto a floured bench and knead for 10 minuets, using only enough flour to ensure that the dough does not stick to the bench.
When the dough is smooth and springy to the touch, dust the bench liberally with flour and allow the dough to rest there, covered with a towel, for 20 minuets. Now, flatten out the dough, sprinkle on the salt, thyme, and olive oil and knead for another 5 minuets, adding no flour if possible. At first it will seem that the oil is not working into the dough; persist, and you will end up with a glossy, smooth, fragrant dough.
Place the dough in a oiled bowl, cover with cling film, and allow to rise in a warm place for about 4 hours, or until it is doubled. Remember, sourdough starters take longer than commercial yeast, but the slow fermentation means more flavor.
When the dough has risen, punch down the centre and pull the sides up and towards the middle. Rest the dough 20 minuets.
Turn the rested dough onto a lightly floured surface and shape it into a loaf. Do this by gently rolling the dough in a clockwise motion, allowing the bottom to stick just enough that the dough pulls itself into a tight ball as you roll. If I is sticking too much dust the bench with more flour; if it is not sticking at all spray the bench with some water. When you have formed a tight ball of dough with a smooth surface (but not torn – this indicates the ball of dough is too tight) shape it into a “football” by pulling one side of the dough towards you, as if you were tucking it into the bottom of the loaf.
On a tray, place your little football upside down on a very well floured cloth, preferably one without any texture or loose fabric. Bunch the sides of the cloth up around the loaf so as to form a bed of sorts. The idea is to hold the shape of the loaf while still allowing it to rise. Cover all of this with cling wrap and place it in your refrigerator overnight to slow the fermentation (this means more flavor).
The next day, remove the loaf from the refrigerator, discard the plastic and allow it to come to room temperature covered lightly with a towel. This should take about 2 hours. 1 hour before baking turn your oven on to the highest setting and place a baking stone on the lowest rack.
When the bread has reached room temperature and the over is hot, turn your loaf gently out onto the back of a floured baking tray. Using a very sharp knife or a razor blade cut a 3-5 cm deep slash at a 45º angle along the length of the loaf.
Quickly open the oven, slide the loaf onto the baking stone, spray the sides of the oven with water to produce steam and clove the oven. Reduce the temperature to 200º C. For the first five minuets of baking, crack the oven door open every minuet and spray the sides of the oven. The steam you are creating helps the loaf rise (called 'oven spring') before it forms a crust.
Let the loaf bake for 25 minuets more and then rotate it to ensure even baking. After a total of 45-50 minuets the loaf will be ready. Flip it and tap the bottom; when it sounds hollow, it is done baking. Cool the loaf on a baking rack completely before cutting. 
Tune in next week when our hero finally makes a sandwich! And eats it!
How to Make a Sandwich in Less Than Two Weeks
Frugality played a big part in the dinners of my childhood. Especially during the years in which I was living with my grandparents. Not that I noticed at the time, nor do I mind it in hindsight. We ate well: risottos and pastas, stews and soups, casseroles and roasts. I don't remember a day when the house wasn't filled with the sounds of my grandmother happily pottering in the kitchen. Only upon reminiscing did I realize that polenta with cheese was poverty food, that elk and deer mince, from family hunters, were a cheap alternative to store-bought protein; as far as I was concerned my meals just tasted good.
I was perfectly happy eating this way, but I did look forward to the occasional treat. We'd, from time to time, order a blueberry pie from the local pastry shop. I'd stare sidelong at the white, window-toped box throughout all of dinner, knowing Grandpa would cut me an extra large slice. Other treats were not so obviously special to me. We'd have a steak once in a great while, and this must have been something my grandparents looked forward to especially, but it made no great impression on me.
There was one meal in particular that seemed to me to be very special. Looking back I can see now that it was neither expensive nor extravagant, but we all greeted it with great anticipation – so much so that we dubbed it a “night,” as if it were a public holiday or a local event. “Tonight,” my Grandpa would say with obvious joy, “is BLT night.”
My grandma's BLT consisted of nothing but the usual suspects: crisp bacon, iceberg lettuce, sliced tomato, a bit of mayonnaise, and wholemeal toast. It is simply a magical combination of flavors and textures.
I was thinking about “BLT nights” the other day whilst inhaling a quick bacon sandwich before the start of lunch service. It was tasty, there's no doubting, but it was no event. So, after some thought, I've decided to create the ultimate BLT, in hopes of restoring some of that magic.
I'll be spreading this recipe out over a couple of posts, as there's a bit of work (and a lot of typing) involved.
Let's go make a sandwich! In just under two weeks!
Step One: Make Bacon
That's right kids, we're makin' bacon! Were gonna smoke our own pork (and a whole host of other of other vaguely sexual euphemisms). Why, I hear you ask, why go to the trouble when you can buy bacon at any grocery store, truck stop, or pawn shop? Not only is the process incredibly simple and extremely satisfying, I promise that you'll make the best bacon you've ever tasted.
By way of a note: I usually don't mention sources for my information; this is mostly because I can't always remember where I learned something. Other times I read several recipes for one dish, pick methods and ingredients I like from each, and make up my own recipe as I go. Here, however, I have borrowed heavily from the book Charcuterie by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn. This is, hands down, the best book you'll ever own on the subject of curing and smoking meats. Go buy it. My recipe for Maple-Cured, Hickory Smoked Bacon is a variation on the one in this book.
Also, a disclaimer: Curing and smoking meats can be dangerous. If not done properly you can make someone ill. In addition, pink salt (also called saltpetre or sodium nitrate) is dangerous if eaten in great quantities. In other words: if you stuff this up, you've been warned.
2 kilo piece of pork belly, bone out, skin on
60 g sea salt flakes
12 g pink salt (sold readily in the States, a bit harder to find in Australia)
60 g brown sugar
60 ml maple syrup
hickory chips
Combine the salts, sugar, and syrup in a small bowl. Stir to form a rough paste. Find a container (preferably metal or glass) that the pork belly just fits into. Rub the salt paste all over the belly, skin side as well. Cover and refrigerate.
Over the next couple days the salt will draw moisture out of the pork which will create a brine that the belly needs to soak in. Every two days turn the pork in its brine.
After a week the pork should feel firm. Remove it from the brine (which you can now discard), rinse the meat, and pat it dry. Place it on a rack and leave uncovered in the fridge overnight so that it can dry thoroughly. Soak the hickory chips in water overnight.
Prepare your bbq for smoking (I use the oven at work, as we have commercial-strength extraction fans). Heat one side of your bbq on low heat and start some damp hickory chips smoking. Place the belly, skin side down, on the opposite side of the bbq and close the lid. Keep topping up the smoking chips and monitoring the internal temperature of the pork belly using a meat thermometer. The bacon is ready when the interior of the meat reaches 65º C. It should take about 3 hours.
Remove from the bbq and allow to cool. I like to refrigerate mine wrapped only in baking paper, as this allows it to breath a bit. Using a sharp knife, cut the skin off the cold bacon without removing much fat. Keep the skin to toss into your next pot of pea and ham soup.
Now, make friends with someone at the local deli. It's always good to have a friend at the local deli. Take your bacon to the deli and ask your friend to slice it paper-thin for you. Be sure to let them have a half dozen rashers or so. Bacon tax.
Store the bacon in wax paper. In theory, it will last weeks. I challenge you to not eat it all in half that time.
Tune in next time for Part II...
What a Mess
What I know about Eton, Berkshire, England: Not much. Nothing, in fact. Not a single thing. Mention the place and I come up with the mental equivalent of colored bars or radio static or images of those dancing, singing, helium-enraged, claymation elves you vaguely remember seeing every drunken Christmas afternoon on public access television.
The only thing that comes to mind when Eton is mentioned, really, is the The Jam song “Eton Rifles.” I don't even know what the song is about. Presumably about Eton the place. Maybe not. Now, let me tell you what I know about The Jam. Also not a whole lot. I do know that they were cool. Damn cool. They were THE seminal mod rock band in the late 70's and early 80's. Paul Weller, possibly one of the most hip guys alive, fronted the Jam. That much I know. I also know that during the 80's when Paul looked around at the explosion of ankle warmers, bangles, and fluorescent clothing he shook his head, single handedly took “cool,” folded it into a tiny package, and slipped it into his back pocket saying: “I'll hold on to this until the rest of you need it again.” He has yet to return it.
Oh, also, I know about Eton Mess. It is a dessert so pathetically cheap in ingredients I have only once seen it on a menu. It's a traditional English dish invented at Eaton College sometime in the 20's or 30's. The “mess” part of the name is is derived from the unsightly appearance of cream mixed with strawberries and crumbled meringue. The dessert reeks of poverty, leftovers, economy, and grand-scale food service.
And it tastes bloody good.
Look, this is so simple, you don't need a recipe, really. Traditionally, Eton Mess is made by layering whipped cream, crumbled meringue, and strawberries. Any berry will do.
To make the one in the picture I whipped some cream, but did not sweeten it. I tossed some blackberries into the bottom of a glass, sprinkled them with a splash of blackberry liqueur, and covered them with the whipped cream and some crumbled meringue. A layer of raspberries next, followed by more cream and finished with crumbled meringue.
That's it. Let's get to eating.
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