What's in a Salad?

I am a great fan of culinary tradition. I like to know how dishes were originally made; how the primary makers intended them to taste. What did the first osso bucco look like? What went into the original beef stroganoff? How should one go about preparing a classic mont blanc? These things, silly or not, intrigue me. As a result, I've something of a reputation for turning my nose up at shortcuts in the recreation of classics; so much so that nearly everyone I cook with prefaces every food suggestion with “I know that this is not how it is 'done,' but I'm going to....” Couple this with my near maniacal obsession with making everything I possibly can from scratch and I can come across as being a stickler for the rules, at best. At worst I am resistant to any kind of change; hostile to any semblance of evolution in cookery. Some might call me a pedant.

And I suppose I am, a bit. I spend a lot of time reading about food, researching histories, comparing recipes. This inevitably involves forays into anthropology, sociology, biology, and etymology, among others, none of which I have any real training in, but I'm slowly building a knowledge base about food that might one day lead me to be reasonably called “an expert.” Until then, I'll simply continue to act as if I am one. Smoke and mirrors, mostly...



A few examples of my pedantic attitude: It really upsets me when pizza margherita is advertised with any more or fewer of the following ingredients atop the wood-fired base: tomato, mozzarella, basil, olive oil. Also, Why would you DARE put tomato into cassoulet? Why? These things actually bother me. Oh, and, by the way, tarte tatin is traditionally done with shortcrust (not puff, as is the current trend) pastry. Please.

So, to recap, I am both pedantic and slightly vaudevillian in my approach to culinary history. Sooner or later I'll either get over my nitpicking or learn enough to completely back it up. In the meantime, I can admit that I am often a bit surprised when I reach for the reference section of my little cooking library and discover that I have no idea what a certain dish is really meant be.

While a litany of examples come to mind, I am thinking foremost of Caesar salad. This poor salad's history is murky at best. The first documented mention of the dish on a menu comes some twenty years after its claimed invention. Already, in that space of time, the ingredients had mutated and multiplied in a manner that stuns. The original recipe, according to Rosa Cardini (daughter of creator Caesar Cardini) included: Italian olive oil (Cardini was an Italian immigrant to Mexico), lemons, worcestershire, croutons, parmesan , and romaine (or cos, as it is called in OZ) lettuce. That's it.



I've no need to tell you that it's become a salad loaded with meats and anchovies and creamy dressings. I've seen “Triple Cheese” and “ Char-Grilled Sirloin” Caesars advertised. Iceberg or butter leaf lettuce are common substitutions. Bacon is a common addition. I've eaten Chicken Caesar sandwiches (quite good, actually) and served miniature versions in tiny parmesan baskets as canapés.

The pedantic argument I would usually make is that these, these things, these aberrations, have no right to call themselves Caesar. They may be “inspired by” or “interpretations of” but they are not the real thing. I would usually be against this sort of bastardization, especially after reading up on the glory that is “the original”.

I say “usually” because, in this one case, I actually think several of these alterations are improvements. I've made the salad according to the original recipe and it is quite tasty. However, I like anchovies in a Caesar. I like a garlic-laden, mayonnaise-like dressing. Hell, throw some grilled chicken on top. Yum. Most of the time, after I've read up on the history of a dish, I find that the original is superior, and I adopt a similarly superior attitude toward third generational variations, but, in this instance, at least, I'm all for change.

So, the real thing is nothing like what I am familiar with, which is what I'd like to have for lunch.

And, since you asked, this is lunch:

Tea Smoked Quail Caesar

In this recipe the quail are first brined and then divided into legs and crown (two breasts on the bone). The legs are then cooked slowly in duck fat and the crown hot smoked with tea, orange peel, and wood chips. I confit the legs because I feel they come up a bit tough when smoked, but they are not inedible when done this way. If you want to smoke the whole bird and omit the second cooking method, the result will still be great.



2 quail
35g sea salt
16g sugar
4g pink salt
500ml water

250ml duck fat (optional)

3 bags black tea
dried peel of one orange (see below)
wood chips, soaked over night

Bring the salt, sugar, pink salt, and water to a boil. Cool to room temperature and then refrigerate until cold. Submerge the quail in the cold brine and weigh it down with a saucer to keep it under the surface. Brine the quail for 12 hours, refrigerated. Remove the quail from the brine and pat dry.

If you do not plan to cook the legs separately, skip to the next paragraph. Cut the legs from the crown of the quail by cutting through the backbone of the bird above the hip joints and below the opening of the cavity. Remove the bit of backbone from between the two legs by cutting or pulling the ball joint out of the hip socket. Discard this bone. Gently melt the duck fat, submerge the legs, and cook in a 150ºC oven for 2-3 hours, or until the meat is quite soft but not completely falling off the bone. Remove from oven and allow to cool in the fat.

To smoke the crown (or whole bird, if you like), prepare a few coals in a smoker and hot smoke using a mixture of the tea (removed from the bags), orange peel, and a handful of chips. Hot smoke until the internal temperature reaches 71ºC. Remove from smoker and cool. Carve the breasts from the crown just prior to use.

Dressing
1 eggs, room temperature
1 clove garlic
3 anchovies
1 tsp dijon mustard
15ml lemon juice
30g grated parmesan
15ml worchestershire sauce
500ml vegetable oil

Begin by coddling, or par-cooking, the egg. Boil a medim sized pot of water. Using a slotted spoon, gently lower the egg into the water. Remove the pan from the heat, allow to stand one minute. Remove the egg from the hot water and transfer to a bowl of ice water to arrest the cooking.

Crack the egg (it will only be partly cooked, use a spoon to extract the cooked white bits that my cling to the interior of the shell) into a blender. Add the garlic, anchovies, and dijon, and blend until smooth. With the blender running, very slowly drizzle in the oil until a thick emulsion forms. You will most likely not use all the oil. With the blender still running add the remaining ingredients one at a time. Taste and adjust seasoning.

For the salad

2 heads baby cos (romaine) lettuce
4 quail eggs, room temperature
50g shaved parmesan
10 baguette slices, as thin as possible
6 anchovies, 2 chopped roughly, 4 whole
tea-smoked quail breasts (from above)
quail legs, gently melted from fat (from above)
olive oil

Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Gently lower the quail eggs into the water with a slotted spoon. Cook for exactly 2 minutes, then remove from pot and shock in a bowl of ice water. Peel gently and set aside.

Lightly brush the bread slices with olive oil and either toast in a 120º oven or, as I do, in a sandwich press until they are crispy. Keep croûtons at room temperature until serving.

Slice the quail breasts into strips, keeping them arranged in the shape of the breast. Gently work the thigh bone from the quail legs(if you've cooked the legs separately, the bone should come out with a gentle pull of your fingers, otherwise you'll have to cut it out), leaving the lower leg bone in place, all while keeping the legs as whole as possible.

Prepare the cos by peeling back the leaves of lettuce, discarding the outer few, keeping as many intact as possible. Rinse and dry the leaves and select 4 large ones which will hold the salad. Shred the remainder roughly with a knife.

In a large bowl, toss together the shredded lettuce, half the parmesan, half the croûtons, and a few generous spoons of dressing. Fill your reserved lettuce leaves with this mixture and arrange the quail eggs, quail breasts and legs, remaining parmesan, anchovies, and croûtons. Top with more dressing. Eat by picking up the leaves filled with salad. No cutlery necessary.