Homonyms and Random Association

I am, as I might have mentioned before, quite fascinated with the process in which ideas evolve. I've written in the past about the manner in which slow-burn thoughts combined with a lifetime's gathering of knowledge, can suddenly explode, (Eureka!), into the consciousness. In contrast, most of my my ideas are not the result of amassed knowledge and long mulling. Neither are the majority sudden bursts of inspiration. Rather, my ideas often come to me when my mind is free and wandering, leaving a random association trail of breadcrumbs which I can only sometimes retrace. For example, once when slow-roasting a batch of quince, I was thinking about the medieval nature of the fruit, which has fallen, for the most part, out of favor. This, in turn got me thinking about other foods no longer in popular use, and I was reminded of bay leaves. We still use bay, obviously, but it was once a common flavoring in desserts, only dropping out of use when vanilla became widely available. So I wondered, looking at my quince, what bay would taste like alongside. Quince tatin with bay leaf ice cream is sensational.

This week's post, (not about quince, by the way) came to me in something of an oblique, random association manner: via a joke I've been perpetuating. I've been flogging, ridiculously, at work the declaration that the next time I travel to the States, I want to do so in hunting season. Not that I am much of a hunter, really, but I hope, as my story goes, to happen across an old friend with a Moose-hunting license, something of a sought-after and limited commodity in my home state of Wyoming. My co-workers have started referring to me as “The Moose Hunter.” Now, I have nothing in particular either against living moose nor in favor of moose meat, which, incidentally, I have eaten. It's just that I'd really like, just once in my life, to whiz up some raw moose meat with some eggs and cream, crafting (forgive me) a moose mousse.

This potential menu item and, shall we call it, gastro-pun, reminds me of a similar such example I read once in an Australian cookbook. The chef (and I can't remember who, sorry) paired marron, a freshwater crayfish native to Western Australia, with chestnuts. Sure, the two might have tasted great together, but I can't shake the feeling that the chef was simply playing on the fact that the French word for chestnuts is “marron.” Marron et marron. Cute.



It's this sort of random association that brought me 'round to the idea of combining the two and making a marron mousse. It has none of the pun-factor, but manages to maintain a bit of the alliteration. I'm serving it up tucked inside some ravioli with a champagne and lemon beurre blanc, and chervil. Yum.

While we're free associating... a story: I was working at a fine dining restaurant owned and run by a volatile English chef; we'll call him David. David was the sort of angry, insult-flinging, eyes bulging, screaming psychopath who would probably make great T.V. viewing (think Gordon Ramsay on a bad day), but isn't so great to work under. Not to say that David was a bad boss. Quite the opposite, actually. We all had immense respect for him as a chef – he'd done his time in Europe, and in Australia, working under some of the best chefs in the world. On top of this, he was a genuinely nice guy, outside of service times, who cared for all of his employees, beyond what might be reasonably expected (when I gave my notice, for example, he gave me in return a list of phone numbers of friends with restaurants who might be looking for kitchen staff). It's jut that once service started, so to did the screaming.

David has the highest of standards in the kitchen. This means that when you made a mistake, even a tiny, minuscule misstep – burn a single carrot fondant in a batch of 40 – falling on your chef's knife, samurai-style often seemed like a more attractive option than the absolute bollocking you were sure to face at the hands of David.

One Friday afternoon during staff meal at David's restaurant, I was flipping through a copy of a national Australian food magazine and happened across a tiny column called “Chef's Confessions” or something akin. Usually, the “confession” is that the chef in question eats bowls of cereal for dinner in lieu of cooking, or other boring non-revelations. This month, however, the confession was by a Sydney chef admitting to a kitchen crime at least five years old. “Darren,” admitted that while working under David at a now defunct restaurant, that he'd spilled a jug of blue sports drink over a tray of several serves of marron ravioli in the cool room, ruining the lot. He'd told David that the ravs had oxidized, changing color, and had to be thrown out. David, angry but not incensed, believed, and Darren more or less got away with it.

I had a good chuckle at the story and decided to point it out to my chef, David, who was mentioned by name. I watched his face, as he read, change from amusement to bemusement to anger to rage. He picked up his phone, punched in some numbers and, when Darren answered, launched a tirade, half a decade late, with the most withering barrage of expletives and accusations I have ever heard. There is no escape.



Marron Ravioli with a Champagne Beurre Blanc and Chervil

I know this is fresh pasta two weeks in a row, but once you've got the ol' machine out, you might as well use it a few times. Look to last week's post for a pasta method and recipe. If you can't get marron, prawns, yabbies (crayfish), or lobster will do just fine. Look to last week's post for a pasta recipe and method. A double batch should be ample for this recipe, which will feed 4 as a moderate main. Also, I know I called this a “marron mousse” earlier, but that is a lie. It is a fish mousse filled with chunks of marron. Marron is nearly as expensive as lobster, I can't afford to make a real marron mousse.

4 large live marron (about 600g total)
250g white fish (something cheap and boneless)
200ml cream
1 egg + 1 white
1 tbsp chopped chervil
grated zest of one lemon

1 double batch of pasta
25 small chervil sprigs, plus 15 for garnish

200 ml champagne
400 g butter, 1 cm dice, cold
juice of half a lemon

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Stun the marron by placing them in the freezer for half an hour before cooking. Plunge them into the boiling water and cook for 2 minutes. This will not be enough time to cook them through, but it will allow you to extract the tail and claw meat more or less intact. Remove them from the water and transfer to a bowl of ice, covering them in the ice. Cool.

Pull the tail from the body of the marron. Using scissors, cut through the soft part of the shell on the underside of the tail and then peel off the shell. You should have a single piece of marron meat that will probably be a bit raw in the middle. Slice the tails into medallions about ½cm thick.

Remove the claws at the first joint. Crack and pick any meat you can from the joints below the claws. As carefully as you can, crack the shell around the claw (I use the back of a knife) forming a circle around the hemisphere, so that you can break away the bottom half of the shell, exposing the claw meat while leaving the claw tips in place. This take a bit of practice, and if it goes poorly, pick the meat and put it in with the tail meat. Otherwise, save the shelled claws for a garnish.

Meanwhile, make the mousse. Cut the fish flesh into chunks and place it in a food processor with the egg and the extra white. Blitz until smooth. With the processor running slowly add just enough of the cream to make the mix light and loose, without being runny. You might use all the cream, but it is unlikely. Stop the processor to avoid over-working the cream. Transfer to a bowl and, using a spatula, mix in the chopped chervil, lemon zest, a generous pinch of salt and grind of pepper. Place a dollop on a sheet of clingfilm tie into a little parcel and drop into a simmering pot of water for 3 or 4 minutes. Taste the cooked mousse and adjust seasoning as needed. Fold the prepared marron meat into the mousse and refrigerate.

Cut your rolled out pasta into disks using a 8cm ring cutter. You'll need more than 50 disks to make 4 serves of 5 ravs each while allowing for inevitable breakages. Keep the disks covered with an ever-so-slightly damp cloth wile you work.

Lay five of the disks out on a board or the bench and spoon a heaping teaspoon of mousse into the centre. Top this with one of the picked chervil sprigs. Brush the exposed edges of pasta with water and press a second disk onto the top of each, pinching together the two to form a tight seal. Lay the ravioli in a single layer on a sheet of baking paper.

Repeat this process, making 5 ravs at a time, until all the mix is used up and you've got about 28-30 ravioli.

Prepare and ice bath. Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to the boil. Drop in half of the ravioli and cook for 4 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer to the ice bath. Repeat with the second half of the ravs. Remove all the ravioli from the ice bath when cold. Drain, toss lightly with oil, and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Just prior to serving, make the beurre blanc. Bring the champagne, a pinch of salt, and a grind of pepper to a simmer in a small pot on medium heat and reduce to 1/3 of its original volume. Reduce the heat to low. Whisking constantly, add a few cubes of butter at a time, waiting until one lot is incorporated to add the next. When all of the butter has been added, remove the pot from the heat and add the lemon juice. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Drop the reserved claws into the hot beurre blanc to rewarm.

Meanwhile, boil a large pot of water and drop the ravioli in to rewarm, for about one minute. Remove from the pot. Arrange in 4 shallow bowls, drizzle the beurre blanc over the top, garnish with the remaining parsley sprigs and the reserved claw meat. Finish with a crack of pepper and serve.