This is one from the archives. I prepared this dish once, years ago. It was the first course of a meal I cooked for my wife on our anniversary. It turned out to be one of the most extravagant meals I've ever eaten at home. I didn't plan it that way.
For the record, the day didn't really get interesting until I got lost. I'd been driving around the same convoluted, one-way streets of one of Sydney's inner western suburbs for well over an hour in the melting, mid-summer heat. The situation was marginally bearable for me and intensely dangerous for the gigantic lobster who was flipping darkly in the cardboard box next to me. I was beginning to swear.
Originally the plan had been simple. I delicious meal of one of our splash-out favorites, lobster thermador. It's a rich, baked lobster dish made with a tarragon and mustard flavored cream. I'd prepare it, I thought, using a tiny lobster, leaving room for a side salad and possibly a light dessert.
What I didn't take into account was Chinese New Year. An interesting fact: Sydney has the largest Chinese New Year celebrations anywhere in the world outside of China. Another interesting fact: these celebrations often include feasts of seafood, namely lobster.
Thus, as Chinese New Year is not long after my anniversary, every lobster at every vendor in the Sydney fish markets was either spoken for or roughly larger than my cat. Not to be deterred I batted my eyelashes and innocently asked for the smallest lobster available. I must have offended them. They fetched me a gargantuan creature from the tank, the only available sir, very sorry. I bought it. Nothing was stopping thermador.
Cracken in tow, I set off for the warehouse of one of our restaurant's importer/suppliers where I hoped to purchase a fine balsamic to have with bread and oil. I had an address and a vague sense of the location, and a crustacean to keep me company.
This, of course, led directly to me being lost. I wouldn't use the term “hopelessly,” but I might consider “pathetically.” Pathetically lost, I zigzagged through curving, narrow streets, nearly clipping several mirrors, revisiting the same intersections numerous times. An hour passed.
By the time I spotted the correct address, I was fuming. My day, and with it my prep time, was slipping away. The warehouse in question was fronted by a tiny shop where customers are invited to sit and taste the various goods, hear about their manufacture, discuss their history. I, shrugging off the offered chair and glancing pointedly at my watch, hastily explained what sort of balsamic I wanted. My supplier wandered off to get me a few samples.
Then, I smelled them. Drifting in from the warehouse behind the shopfront came the most heavenly aroma. Deeply earthy, mysterious, fungal, cheesy, musty, sexual.
Truffles. No. Black truffles. Real, fresh, Perigord winter truffles. Not truffle oil, not truffle paste, not watery tinned truffles. Truffles.
Mesmerized, I walked into the back to discover a small mountain of them, arrived fresh from France that morning. Dinner plans dissipated.
“I must have one,” I droned, zombie-like. “Must have truffle.”
“They are $3000 a kilo.”
“Must ha... 3 what a kilo?”
I therefore found myself asking for the second time in one day: “Can I have the smallest one you've got?”
It must have been the truffle aroma in the confines of my car that pushed me over the edge; absolute insanity set in. Pasta. I would make fresh pasta. Sure it was late afternoon, but I could bang it out in an hour or so. I had in mind a dish I'd read about but never dreamed of eating: parpadelle pasta with butter, truffles and parmesan.
The rest of the afternoon was a panic of flour. Long sheets of pasta. Truffle shavings in molten butter, infusing. Steam and sweat.
And then we ate it. Perfectly thin parpadelle coated in flecks of truffle and aromatic butter. I sliced the rest of the truffle over the top with a sprinkling of parmesan. When we'd finished, we both sat silently, shaking our heads in disbelief.
An entire truffle would be enough to qualify this for “most extravagant home-cooked meal ever,” but next we ate the jurassic lobster.
Silly, I know.
Bloated and financially destitute, we ate nothing but gruel for a week. 
Parpadelle with Black Truffle and Parmesan
1 small truffle
250g fresh or 200g dried parpadelle pasta
60g salted butter, cubed
50g parmesean, shaved
Ok, I rolled fresh pasta for this. You can often buy great fresh pastas at delis, but a good quality dried pasta works just as well. I'll cover pasta-making in some other post.
Using a microplane, grate 2/3 of the truffle into a bowl. Melt the butter over a double boiler and add the truffle. Leave the butter and truffle on the double boiler for 20 minuets and then remove. Keep in a warm place.
Blanch the pasta and drain, reserving some of the blanching water. Toss the pasta with the melted butter, add half of the shaved cheese, and a few teaspoons of hot blanching water to make a sauce of sorts. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Divide into two bowls. Using a truffle slicer or a mandolin, slice the remaining truffle paper thin over the pasta. Sprinkle with the remaining parmesan.
On Extravagance
Three Courses
Today's menu consists of three courses. For starters, a slightly rhetorical musing on why Australians think the motion of the Earth does not apply to them. Following, for mains, I'll serve up a frigid childhood memory which will only be repeatable by my grandchildren. Finally, dessert will be a rich tale lightly spiced with insults. Might I suggest a light red?
- The winter solstice has just passed here in the southern hemisphere and with it our shortest day. We're on the upswing again. You might think that this also means that winter has just officially started in Australia, but you'd be wrong. Winter Down Under kicks off on the first of June. I appreciate the nice, round number and all, but something about setting arbitrary dates to mark the beginning and end of seasons doesn't sit well with me. The four seasons, as every school child knows, are caused by the tilt of the Earth on its axis as it makes it's way around the sun. It follows then, that the seasons on our calendar should be based on the same movements. The whole affair feels like a disconnect from the natural world. While I can't really do anything about it, I find it disturbing, and as far as I'm concerned it is only now officially winter.
- It was officially spring 1986 in the northern hemisphere when my dad woke me from my nap in the back of the van. It felt like winter. The sun had long set and the Wyoming sky, towards which his telescope was pointed, was awash with stars. “Come look,” he whispered – stargazing always inspires hushed tones. Peering into the frozen little eyepiece I spotted it: a fluffy, speckled blob that could easily have been the lens frosting up. “76 years?” I asked, not quite believing. Later we wrapped our hands around lukewarm mugs of hot chocolate under the moonless sky. “Why doesn't it look like a comet,” I asked. “It's a long way away.”
- I was feeling a long way away when I took my first job in Sydney. I was hired on as the first new chef to join the kitchen team since the restaurant opened six months previously, and I wasn't exactly being welcomed with open arms. Tossed into dessert section until I could prove my worth, I found myself a bit homesick and more than a bit disheartened. Seeking comfort in food, I made a small pot of rich, dark, hot chocolate and spiced it with cinnamon and a tiny pinch of smoked chili. As I poured myself a mug, the head chef walked in. I handed it to him as something of a peace offering. Upon his first sip I listed for him the ingredients, to which he replied with a melodramatic jerk of his head, “ you are such a Santa Fe victim.” It didn't really hurt; he drank it all.
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Putting all this together, I decided to make a winter celebration treat. Just for fun, I spiced the marshmallows instead of the chocolate.
Dark Hot Chocolate with Santa Fe Victim Marshmallows
For the Marshmallows
3 Tbsp unflavored gelatin
300ml water
500g granulated sugar
1/8 tsp. salt
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
pinch smoked chili powder (see below)
¼ c powdered sugar
¼ c corn starch
Soften the gelatin in in 200 ml of water and set aside. In a small saucepan on medium heat combine the remaining 100 ml of water and granulated sugar and bring to a boil. Simmer until the temperature reaches 115º C (soft ball stage). Remove from reat, combine with the softened gelatin, and stir until cool. Mix in salt. Using an electric mixer (I nearly whisked my arms off doing this by hand) beat until the syrup is white and thick (8-10 min.). Fold in the chili and cinnamon.
Grease a 20 cm square cake pan with a bit of oil. Sift the powdered sugar and the corn starch together and use them to dust the pan. Using a rubber spatula, pour the marshmallow into the pan, smoothing the top. Lightly dust the top with more of the powdered sugar mixture, cover with greaseproof paper and let sit at room temperature for at least an hour.
Turn the marshmallow onto a board dusted with the powdered sugar and either cut with a knife or cookie cutters, tossing each cut marshmallow in more powdered sugar mixture as you cut them. Do not refrigerate. 
For the Dark Hot Chocolate
200 ml milk
1 T cream
50g dark chocolate 65% coco or more
Using a knife, shave the chocolate into thin slivers. Heat the milk and cream in a small pot until it nearly boils. Stirring constantly, mix in the chocolate and stir over low heat until it is completely melted and combined with the milk. At no point should you let the milk come to a boil. Serve hot with your homemade marshmallows.
For the Smoked Chili Powder
3 hot red chilies
Over an open flame (bbq, gas burner) char the skin of the chillies until they are black all over. Place the chillies on a rack and let air dry until they are devoid of moisture. This might take a few days. Alternately you can dry them in an oven on pilot over night. Grind the dried chilies, skin and all, in a spice grinder until very fine.
Cayenne pepper makes a decent substitute, if this all seems like a bit much for you. 
Infatuations
I have the occasional food obsession. Crushes, really. I'll suddenly become enamoured with a flavor or ingredient and I'll use it or eat it as often as possible. One week it will be parsnips. Later it's basil, hot sauce, duck eggs, gruyère.
Eventually the phase passes and I move on to the next thing.
Currently the infatuation is mustard. I'm in love with the stuff. Tangy, sweet, hot, seeded, whatever you've got. I can't eat enough of it. I smear it on roasted meats, whisk it into salad dressings, dollop it into my stews, slap it on my sandwiches, and I've been known to lick the utensil before discarding it.
Interestingly, while closely related, the three types of mustard seeds yellow, brown, and black, are native to North Africa, the Himalaya, and the Andes, respectively. They have been used as a spice and a source of oil in all corners of the world for millennia. We can thank the Romans (those pesky Romans) for mustard as we know it. They mixed ground yellow mustard seeds with grape juice or wine to form a condiment that would have tasted something like hot English mustard.
The heat in mustard is formed when the ground seeds are mixed with a liquid, and it is inversely related to the temperature of the liquid. In other words, hot mustard is made with cold water, medium mustard is made with hot water, and mild mustard is often cooked to remove any traces of heat.
I am not alone in my mustard-lust. Of such importance was mustard to the Europeans in the 17th and 18th centuries, the wealthy often employed someone to do nothing but make the house mustard. Hmmm.... Anybody want a job?
I've been working on this one for a while, and I have a fridge-full of failed attempts to show for it. Mustard seeds are quite bitter, and it took me some time to come up with a recipe that balanced that bitterness without completely obliterating it. For the same reason, I didn't use any sweetener (sugar, honey). The end result is exactly the type of mustard I like to eat: mild, tangy, rich, not perfectly smooth, with a slightly bitter aftertaste. It's something like Dijon, but since Dijon is traditionally made with brown seeds and verjuice, I won't call it that. Any name suggestions?
50g yellow mustard seeds
200ml white wine
200ml cider vinegar
1 ½ tsp salt
1 lg eshallot, fine dice
1 clove garlic, cracked
1 bay leaf
1 allspice berry (pimento), cracked
5 black peppercorns, cracked
Bring all the ingredients, except the mustard seeds, to a boil, reduce heat to the barest of simmers and cook for 20 min. Strain, squeezing out the solids and reserving the liquid. You should be left with less than half the liquid you started with.
Meanwhile, grind the mustard seeds in a mortar and pestal or a spice grinder until very fine. Don't worry if you can't get it as fine as flour, a few chunks add texture.
In a small pot combine the ground seeds and the liquid. Bring to a simmer over low heat and cook, stirring constantly to prevent sticking, until a thick paste has formed. Place in a small jar or a mustard pot and leave at room temperature overnight. Refrigerate at least a week before eating.
You will find that when cooking, the mustard will have a strongly bitter flavor. Don't worry, this drops away with a bit of age.
Mac 'n' Cheese
I planned on writing a historical post today, one all about the storied history of that great American poverty dish, macaroni and cheese. I imagined tales of settlers, huddled around hearth-baked cheesy noodles. I hoped to tell tales of the country's earliest cookbooks and of the nourishing of the nation's founding fathers. I wanted to regale you all with legends of creamy macaroni bolstering the rebel soldiers in the revolution. Reading up on it, however left me with little material to write about.
For starters, the dish is Italian, as one might expect, given the ingredients. The earliest references to what we would recognize as macaroni and cheese are in 15th century Italian cookbooks. Contrast this to the first American references in the early 19th century; not much room to claim this a a very 'American' dish. Macaroni and cheese made it's way to colonial America via British settlers who had long been making a version they copied from the Italians. In fact, by the time of the American Revolution, the dish had already been widely adopted all over western Europe.
The best I can do in accrediting any of the history of macaroni and cheese to my fatherland is to offer a few bits of interesting trivia. For example, Thomas Jefferson served it at an official White House dinner in 1802. The boxed version of the dinner was introduced in the States during the 2nd World War and became a staple for families struggling to cope with food rationing, thus propelling it into instant popularity.
I grew up on the stuff out of a box, as did every kid I knew. I loved it at the time. In fact, I pretty much lived on the bent little noodles for the five or so years it took me to earn my four-year degree. Now, however, I can't imagine eating that weird powdered cheese that smells like feet and tastes not unlike feet.
Don't get me wrong; I really love cheesy noodles. In fact, I had them for lunch today.
Gratin de Macaronis et de Fromage
(A French name makes them sound all fancy and stuff, don't you think?)
150g small pasta shells
50g butter
20g flour
300ml milk
150g cheddar, grated
150g gruyère, grated
3 Tbsp panko bread crumbs
Preheat your oven to 180ºC.
Begin by boiling the shells. Remove them from the water when you judge them to be about 1-2 minuets from cooked. Rinse lightly.
In the meantime, make a cheese sauce. In a small pot heat the milk to near boiling, but do not let it boil. Melt the butter in a second saucepan on medium heat. When it begins to foam, add the flour. Stirring constantly, cook the flour until it is a light golden color. Using a whisk, stir in the hot milk and cook until it thickens. This should only take a few moments.
Reduce the heat to low, and, still stirring constantly, add the cheddar a bit at a time until it is all incorporated. Remove from heat. Stir in the cooked shells.
In an oven-proof dish, alternately layer the shells and a sprinkle of gruyère. Top with the last bit of gruyère and the bread crumbs.
Bake 25 minuets, or until hot throughout. Grill (broil) until brown on top. Cool 10 min before serving.
One note: panko are Japanese-style bread crumbs. They are flaky and make a delicious, crunchy crust. If you can't find them, regular breadcrumbs will work just fine.
Sidelined
Professional cooking is all about the main event. Take fine dining, for example. Amuse bouche – tasty but gone-in-a-bite. Starter – what did I order again? Salad – tired greans, often in too much vinegar. Dessert – probably something chocolate I think, I'd consumed several glasses of wine.... The mains, though, let me tell you about the mains. I had a rare-roasted duck breast on a bed of confit kipflers and spec, with pickled cherries and a cinnamon duck jus. I remember that clearly.
All the chefs I know feel the same. No one cares about the first course, Cold starter section is reserved for the most incompetent of cooks. Hot starters is where the salad monkeys graduate to once they've finally gained a skill or two. Dessert is an afterthought; pastry chefs are often left in the kitchen, sending out final dessert orders long after the rest of the kitchen has been cleaned and everyone's gone. To work mains, however, is to be the ruler of the tiny, overheated fiefdom that is a kitchen. It is a power that is somewhat self perpetuating; running mains means you are qualified to be a head or sous chef, and you deserve a considerable amount of respect. Likewise, being a head or sous chef automatically suggests you'll be running the most difficult section in the kitchen, as cooks expect you to work for any respect they give you. The entire structure of a professional kitchen is built on the founding principle that the main course is the main event. The rest is just filler.
However, if my word isn't enough for you (my word, MY word, my WORD, me, a golden god, a blogger for chrissake), allow me to present an anecdote by way of evidence.
While working in a psychotic chain-gang of a kitchen (I've talked about this restaurant occasionally before) I managed to claw my way, in a mere nine months, from salad wench, to hot starters, where I excelled above my other leaf-picking, poo-flinging alumni and ended up running the section. This tiny bit of extra responsibility mostly meant that the head and sous chefs yelled at me more often than not, just in case something that had gone wrong might possibly be my fault.
My plight was something like being sung to by choirs of angles compared to the verbal deluge experienced by the guy cooking at the stove next to me. That poor bastard, and there were several different ones in my stay at this particular restaurant, worked garnish section. This chef was solely responsible for non-protein components of every main dish on the menu, often totaling over twenty-five items. Next to him, on the other side, was the golden boy of the moment, sauce chef.
The sauce chef cooks all the meat and fish for main dishes as well as making, as you might expect, all the sauces. Everything he does must be perfect every time because the things he cooks are both expensive ingredients and the most scrutinized by the customer. He is therefore often the most talented chef in the kitchen. In smaller kitchens this section is worked by the sous chef or the head chef.
Garnish, on the other hand, is often referred to as “vegetable hell,” as it involves an endless manipulation of potatoes and kale and zucchini and cauliflower and peas. It is the section of perpetual broad beans (which, evilly, have to be peeled twice), of turned baby carrots, of parsnip fondants. It was also affectionately known as the “screaming section.”
This handy little alliteration helped us all to remember that, once service started, we knew who was going to enjoy the greatest quantity of verbal attention. And, inevitably, as the garnish chef looked after as many as four components for each of six or seven separate dishes, the wrath of the sleep-deprived head chef would eventually drift down and settle upon his broken, little shoulders.
This inexorable rampage was partly earned; it seemed that no one who worked the section ever managed to keep up with the workload (and I know it is possible; the garnish chef once had a complete, mid-service breakdown, the head chef took over the section, managed to get ahead, still call dockets and direct the rest of the kitchen, hurl verbal abuse and anyone who had the misfortune of making eye contact, and he never broke a sweat).
It was also partly unwarranted; the abuse was staggeringly out of proportion to the mistakes being made. This, I have no doubt, is due to the general disregard in professional kitchens for anything that isn't meat. We all want to talk about the rigor-stiff snapper we prepped, or the perfect roast pork neck we served, or the plump, poached chicken breast we carved. No chef is dying to brag about the beautifully blanched broccoli or the amazingly sweet sautéed squash.
I'm a bit the same, I suppose. Of course I'd rather braise a rabbit than peel a carrot, but I do have a soft spot for a good side dish. I thought, therefore, I'd feature one. I've been meaning to try this one for ages; it's been floating around in my head for quite a while as a possible garnish for roast lamb. I'm not going to tell you what I ended up eating it with, I want you to focus on the side, for once. 
Rosemary Pommes Anna
2 large starchy potatoes, peeled
1 sprig rosemary
4 tbsp butter
sea salt
Gently melt the butter, being sure it does not foam or brown. Using the sprig of rosemary, stir for 30 seconds. Remove the rosemary and set aside. Keep the butter warm. On a mandolin, or with your amazing knife skills, slice the potatoes paper thin.
Brush two small ceramic dishs, about 5 cm deep and 5 cm diamater with some of the melted, flavored butter. Carefully lay a tiny sprig of rosemary in the center of the bottom of each dish. Next, layer the sliced potato into the dishs, brushing each layer with generous amounts of butter, and a sprinkle of salt.
When the dishes are full, cover with tin foil and bake in a 180ºC oven for 20-30 minuets, testing periodically by inserting a knife into the center. When the pommes anna is done, you will fell little resistance to the knife.
Remove from the oven, uncover, and invert onto a tray. A fair amount of hot butter will come out, watch your fingers. Return to the oven, uncovered and increase the temperature to 200ºC for about 5 minuets, or until the top and edges become golden.
Allow the pommes anna to cool slightly before serving.
This should serve two people, or one if you're a big fat pig. Oink, oink.
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