Foam on the sea

I'm so happy—I think I've cracked the solution to presenting a stabler foam with my lobster bisque. It could still do with a some refinement, but I think I'm finally understanding the principles of structure.

The whole idea of intense pure flavour in floating lightly on the dish as an evanescent foam appeals to me, it is so appropriate for our sultry Caribbean weather.

This is a lobster and mango salad presentation: whole Maine lobster tails poached lightly in coconut milk, shallots, fennel, celery, ginger and dry vermouth. I eased each fat tail out of its shell, cooled them and sliced them into medallions for the salad. Then I returned the shells to the poaching liquid and continued the stockmaking till the liquid could absorb no more flavour.

The base is the lobster stock from the shells, infused with fresh ginger. I reduced that to half the volume and added some creamy coconut milk and the barest hint of lime. It is as pale as foam on the sea without the addition of saffron threads or tomato!

The first treatment I tried: no stabiliser, just 250 mls of reduction in the ISI whip charged with one nitrous oxide capsule.



The dense mousse-like texture degraded quickly into a more open foam as we served it, as seen below.



For my second try, I used the same base but this time I whirred 1/2 teaspoon of lecithin granules with 250 mls of the base using an stick immersion blender in place of the ISI whip.



The foam that collected on the surface was light, with large frothy open bubbles that remained stable for presentation. I did notice that halfway through consumption, the foam had begun to dissolve back into liquid at the bottom of the martini glasses.


Salade d'homard et sa ècume

This time, I presented the Maine lobster tails as retro-kitsch 1970s avocado cocktail salad.



I may try next time to thicken the reduction a little with a liaision to see if the yolks and cream might give a little more protein structure, and compare that to thickening with a standard roux.

I am having so much fun playing around with this! Next stop—xanthan gum...

Whip It! [whip it good!]

When a problem comes along, you must whip it
Before the cream sits out too long, you must whip it
...ah, Devo. To think I am old enough to remember them...

Rather late in the day for the culinary zeitgeist, nevertheless, contemporaneity be damned... I am having far too much fun making espumas and 'air' with my ISI Gourmet Whip (a lovely thoughtful gift from The Captain, who spotted me gazing yearningly at it in the manner of a lovesick sheep while we were in Sint Maarten).

So much fun, in fact, that I've spritzed my merry way through my original supply of nitrous oxide capsules with alarming rapidity... lobster espuma, chocolate chilli velvet and mango foam are the top three so far (not on the same plate, mind. Well, not yet. Ha). Fortunately, a kind friend brought me back another two boxes of nitrous oxide from Naco in St Thomas—thanks, Admiral!

The kitsch retro packaging makes me even happier than the possession of the actual capsules. Seriously, is this not all sorts of adorable? I am in love with the go-go boots, the 1960s backcombing and best of all... the girl on the package is actually wearing a semblance of the amazing 1965 YSL 'Mondrian' shift dress!

::giggle::

I went speed-shopping yesterday and treated myself to a tin of lecithin granules and a packet of xanthan gum... I'm keen to learn how to stabilise some of my foams now. 
I am loving my fun ride on the late [foam] train... stay tuned for updates and tales of  
s p l a t t e r (o, the horror).

A menu for the end of 2010

The final meal of 2010 for our current charter guests, before we greeted the new year—

:: miso-seared hamachi with a ruby grapefruit and avocado salad dressed in rice wine vinegar and chilli oil, garnished with crisped nori sheet

:: prawns flash-fried dry in the wok with sel gris de Guerande aux cristaux and crushed fragrant Szechuan peppercorns, served on a swirl of butternut squash 'pasta' ribbons and julienned snap peas, drizzled with black rice wine vinegar

:: lobster à trois: classic bisque served with housemade crème fraîche and white truffle oil,  handmade ravioli of lobster seasoned with ginger oil and scallions topped with an espuma  (thanks for the whip-it capsules, Admiral!) of intense lobster & coconut milk reduction infused with saffron and vanilla bean and lemongrass

:: palate cleanser: shotglasses of honeydew melon, mint and jalapeño granita

:: slow-roasted spice-crusted Kurobota pork belly on a sautéed mélange of mougrabieh (pearled couscous), celery dice, chestnuts and Spanish onion, with a tamarind balsamic glaze

:: dark chocolate chilli velvet accompanied by raspberry and Cointreau sorbet and a warm ganache smear
(I forgot to serve the espresso parfait, oh the shame... ah well, The Captain will eat it)

I was especially happy with my lobster trio—although I do think I might dial back a little on the vanilla bean in the espuma reduction next time.

Only a few hasty pics (and not even garnished yet!), because the timing of service was just too tight for me to photograph the finished plates. We are only a two-person crew!

palate cleanser, before garnish

Szechuan prawns, before garnish

Afternoon prep for the New Year's Eve five-course dégustation dinner

Between half-past two and half-past four, I have:

:: made the chocolate chilli velvet, put it in the freezer

:: done the espresso cream parfait, put that in the freezer too

:: strained the lobster stock I've had simmering all morning, divided it into two portions, reduced one portion with lemongrass, ginger and coconut milk for my espuma, reduced the other portion and finished it off as a classic bisque (hello wine, hello roux, hello crème fraîche, hello love...)

:: finished and put away (for cooking off later) 20 handmade ravioli filled with lobster head meat seasoned with ginger and shallots

:: whisked up the marinade for the hamachi fillet (shiro miso, rice wine, soy, hint of tahini, pickled ginger juice)

:: popped the pork belly in the oven (it has been curing in a dry marinade of garlic, coriander seed, cumin seed, sage, orange zest, sea salt and black pepper)

:: diced the butternut squash, chestnuts and celery to accompany the pork

:: finished off the tamarind balsamic glaze for the pork

:: washed up and cleaned the galley ready for the next round of prep


Still to do:

:: portion out the hamachi fillet

:: do the ruby grapefruit and mint salad for the hamachi

:: cook off the mougrabieh

:: defrost the prawns (shell-on)

:: make some sort of garnish for the dessert


I have been  b u s y !

A Caribbean Yuletide

December brought us a mixed blessing (is there any other sort?) this year. Although we missed out on a Christmas charter because the boat owner did not choose to truncate his holiday dates, on the other hand we had the rare pleasure of sharing the holiday with just each other. For frantically busy crew (we did 27 weeks of charter last season), even a small breather like this is a gift in itself.

We worked steadily up to the afternoon of Christmas Eve, then cast off the mooring lines at base and treated ourselves to a little time off from sunset of Christmas Eve to the morning of Boxing Day. The wind-sculpted cliff faces of the south side of Norman Island led us to secluded and beautiful little Money Bay.



The Captain amused himself with putting up fairy lights in the cockpit and helping me deck out the salon with shiny ornaments, and I amused myself with the other rare pleasure of cooking for... just two. Well, just two people and the magnum of Champagne from our boat show spoils. We tossed some fresh pomegranate seeds into the non-vintage bubbly—so festive: tiny ruby baubles fizzing up with the bubbles.




We had a trio of salmon for dinner on Christmas Eve. First, a plate with sashimi nouvelle-Japonaise style—with a mixture of chilli infused sesame oil, ponzu and rice wine vinegar heated to almost boiling and poured quickly over the translucent rosy slices. Then a tiny timbale of salmon tartare—fine dice of raw salmon and raw fennel tossed with salt-cured capers, a little Dijon mustard, a drop of hazelnut oil, a squitter of lemon. The contrast between the unctuous salmon dice and the crisp fennel was very pleasing to us. We followed that with one of The Captain's favourites of my menu on charter—lightly grilled salmon fillet served on a jewelled wild rice mix, accompanied by fennel confit and a sauce more-or-less-Maltaise (I had to use a Valencia orange, as blood oranges are no longer to be had, alas).

Christmas lunch was as pictured. This time, we had a trio of hamachi. We began with a little tower of hamachi ceviche and avocado flavoured with mirin, fresh ginger and ponzu; then I smeared part of the hamachi fillet on both sides with the shiro-miso (white miso paste) and seared it in a very hot pan. The mild nutty sweetness of the fine film of miso was just right to enhance the deliciously buttery texture and subtle flavour of the seared hamachi. I sprinkled on some sesame seeds to provide texture and to boost the nuttiness; and perched a flame-scorched piece of savoury nori for its intense flavour of the sea. To finish, we ate the remainder of the hamachi as simple sashimi with avocado slices, and some more ponzu and pickled ginger by way of accompaniment. The firm al dente bite of the raw fish contrasts nicely with the creamy avocado slices; and the crisp pickled ginger was just the right thing to 'cut' the unctuous combination.







If I were on charter, I would have served this with a shot glass of ruby grapefruit and Campari salad by way of palate-cleanser, and some form of starch as ballast. Just for us though, it was pure indulgent pleasure to enjoy the various flavours and textures of the fish on its own.

Supper later that evening was mere grazing at a big wodge of Pont L'Évêque—the pungent feet-y exterior so different from the mellow silkiness within; and squares of rich, moist triple-ginger Christmas pudding served hot and doused with black rum sauce. We went to bed sipping at glasses glowing red with spiced mulled wine whose fragrance while simmering had filled the boat with festive perfume: cinnamon stick and cloves and nutmeg, parings of lemon and orange peel, fresh ginger, crushed cardamom and allspice berries.




We also had the pleasure of greeting friends for the holidays—the hard-working and creative Tara and Sasha, of the Sail True blog ( a wonderful insiders' account of life as dedicated charter crew) as they shared the anchorage with us for the afternoon while on-charter with their boat owner.

We loved our Caribbean Yuletide celebration—its memories will sustain us for months to come.

The Captain's pick: salade de chèvre chaud

The Captain adores this classic salad of goat cheese, of which there are literally dozens of variants—and he has taken it upon himself to sample them all, plate by plate and menu by menu, every time we are in the French Antilles. Well, someone has to do it...

It's all about the delicious contrasts—the hot creaminess of the goat cheese and the cool crispness of the salad leaves; the tangy savour enhanced by the hint of honey in the dressing.

It was time to treat my guests to a little something extra the other night, and so I introduced their main course with a small plate, just enough to whet their appetites—too large for an amuse-bouche, but certainly smaller than a standard appetiser. 

I chose to serve a riff on the classic salade de chèvre chaud: instead of presenting the cheese on crisp, garlicky rounds of toast, I cut the fresh mild goats cheese into fingers and wrapped each in a sheet of delicate Tunisian brik pastry and scattered each with poppy seeds. Then I slid them into a hot oven to warm the goats cheese into a melting creaminess within the light golden shell. I love brik for its flexible translucent sheets, more easily workable than filo and not needing to be layered with an additional coat of butter or olive oil.

For the dressing, I bruised a large sprig of fresh rosemary until the pine-y aromatics rose to my nose, then chopped it fine and tossed it into a beaker of golden honey. I warmed this gently, and left it to infuse. To layer the rosemary flavour, I repeated this process with some good green extra-virgin olive oil. Then I whisked a dab of Dijon mustard, the rosemary-infused honey and the rosemary-infused olive oil in a bowl till they emulsified nicely. I added a little Spanish sherry vinegar—vinagre de Jeréz—drop by drop until the flavours balanced.

For the salad leaves I chose tender baby spinach leaves to contrast with the slightly bitter frill of frisée (curly endive), a few finely-sliced curls of baby celery and a couple of shavings of fresh red beetroot for sweetness and crunch.

Now I had all my contrasts: the hot cheese, the crisp pastry, the fresh salad, the fragrant and lightly honeyed dressing. The verdict? Well, the plates came back clean (in one case, wiped enthusiastically with a licked finger), and The Captain, having eaten his separately-plated Captain's Tithe, pronounced himself well pleased. 

Sculpted with the hands: manaqish bi za'atar

The Arabic word for bread, aish, is also the word for life; and we say in English, Bread is the staff of life. It is at once the simplest and most basic sustenance, as well as one of the simplest but most evocative of pleasures—there's no mistaking the aroma of freshly-baked bread, the comforting savour as you bite into a piece still warm from the oven.

Manaqish is named according to its method: the surface of the dough is pressed with the fingers, creating a pattern of little wells for the toppings. It is a wonderfully easy bread to make and serve on charter—it needs only an hour's rise, so its journey from nothing more than a mound of flour to puffy golden disks fragrant with herbs and good olive oil and flakes of sea salt is brief.

When I first tasted it, I was a starry-eyed young traveller wandering the old city of Damascus, and it came accompanied by deliciously tangy labne (a drained yoghurt cheese) and ripe tomatoes... a breakfast I have relished in memory time and again, and have tried to recreate in floury-handed fact many times since.

I've since learnt, via the wonderful food blog of Fouad, that it is also a favourite breakfast in Lebanon—his evocatively written entry is a must-read.

I've adapted and modified this recipe to make it as charter-friendly as possible for a busy boat chef; and I've also rung certain non-traditional variations with the toppings, depending on my guests' preferences. But never do I fail to tell its story, and to serve at least one in the way I had it first and love it best: topped simply with olive oil and za'atar, that storied mix of sesame seeds and tart sumac and herbs—thyme, oregano or what was called hyssop—that links us, with each savoury bite, to the daily life of people of other landscapes in these essential forms:

Wheat. Olives. Wild herbs. Water. Salt.

web references

http://thefoodblog.com.au

http://arabic-food.blogspot.com



Manakish | Manaqish | Manakeesh

modified for the charter chef

serves an 8-pax boat for breakfast, plus the usual charter accompaniments

For the sponge:  whisk together 2 tablespoons of plain flour, 2 teaspoons sugar and one packet of dried yeast. Sprinkle on top of half a cup of water (at warm blood temperature), stir gently, and leave ten minutes until it forms a creamy and sweetly beer-scented foam.

For the dough:  combine 2 cups of whole wheat flour and 1 cup of plain flour in a large bowl. Make a well in the centre, and add the sponge mixture. Begin to stir, adding up to another 1/2 cup to 2/3 cup of warm water as necessary. The dough should be a little wetter and stickier than a pizza dough.

Knead firmly for about ten minutes, or until the dough feels silky and elastic, with a lively 'spring'. Cover and leave in a warm spot to rise for about an hour. 


Portion the dough out into fist-sized balls (I have a small hand), and press or roll flat. Press your fingertips into the surface of each to form an overall pattern. Brush generously with a quality, flavourful extra virgin olive oil, and sprinkle with za'atar.

Bake for 10 to 12 minutes in a hot oven (200º C for me on our boat), or until the bottoms are crisp, and the tops are slightly puffed and golden. The rising aroma will let you know when they are ready! 
Serve with bowls of chopped ripe tomato, cucumbers and chopped fresh mint. Tell the story.

.

variations I may sometimes top a few manakish with one or a combination of: chunks of fetta cheese, or slices of water-packed bocconcini, or roasted butternut squash and a handful of rocket, or cherry tomatoes or caramelised sweet golden shallots and lumps of chèvre... etc

plain manakish + manakish with molten fresh mozzarella

Dry-roasted short ribs in a pepper'd spice crust

Our kind friends Wanda and James came to our rescue one evening, when we had spent many a long day immersed in cleaning and scrubbing and polishing the boat for the trade show. Like benevolent genii from a fairytale, they whisked us away to their beautiful hilltop aerie, then fed us and watered us and returned us to the boat before we even knew quite how it all came about.

We sat on their patio with the blue evening sky above us, admiring the long golden oblongs of light cast by their open French doors, sipping at glasses of wine while their cat twined itself around our ankles in a furry sinuous welcome. Later, plates of richly savoury food appeared in front of us. Their company and thoughtfulness fed more in us than simply hunger, and we returned to our work the next day with stout hearts and good cheer.

One of the dishes from that night was a sublimely tender pile of ribs, which James had coated in a dry spice rub and slow-roasted for hours.

I usually braise my ribs in some kind or other of spiced and seasoned wine before finishing them off to char them, and that's what I plated out for my charter guests' main course; but I wanted to try out this dry-roasted method too, so I amused myself with a little experimental starter for them.

I crushed a generous handful of colourful mixed peppercorns—black and pink, green and mild white—in the mortar and pestle, along with some coriander seeds and cumin seeds for savour. A couple of fine fat cloves of garlic pounded to a creamy paste with plenty of sea salt, and a little chopped thyme, to bind it all together. Pungent and floral and spicy, this paste was rubbed generously into the flesh of a couple of pounds of beef short ribs, which I slid into the top shelf of the oven while a pan of my braised ribs simmered away below.

Two and a half hours later, I took out the tray. The fat had rendered off, and the spice-crusted meat lay in tender fragments on the bones.

I chose to serve this small 'taste' on cucumber slices for their cool juicy contrast, layered some translucent shavings of our house-made pickled cucumber, and finally topped the stack with fine-sliced red radish to play on the mélange of pepper flavour. This is also my nod to the Roman gourmand Apicius, for whom the piquant duo of pepper (a beloved spice of the ancient world) and vinegar-tart pickle would have been comfortingly familiar.

This pleased me enough to make me think about quantifying the proportions into a proper recipe to post at a later date. I may even have the cheek to try serving this one night to Wanda and James the next time we are off-charter, by way of return of hospitality...

Trios, Threesomes And The Number Three

Trio de Crevettes ::  the charterbot at work
from left to right:  sautéed prawn perched on a bloody mary salsa shot; homemade jerk-marinated grilled prawn skewered with fresh pineapple; classic prawn ceviche with fine dice of avocado, spring onion, jalapeño and tomato seasoned with lime, coconut milk and cilantro


All good things come in threes, they say. They also say that the tripod is the most stable structure in nature. Either of those platitudes might do as a reply if a guest asks me why I plate out so many dishes in groups of three. The truth of the matter is simply that I happen to like the number three: I like its pleasing double curve in print, so easy on the eye; I like the satisfying finality of counting one, two, three! *


My Rule of Three magically turns two of my faults (indecisiveness, and a fickle heart) into charter-chef virtues: I don't need to decide on just one thing since I can do... all three instead; and I can indulge in one of my favourite pastimes: taking one ingredient and dressing it up in various ways. The reward: smiles on the faces of our guests when they find, unexpectedly, three different bites and flavours on the plate instead of just the one. 

Alas, the problem is trying to decide which three... had I but world enough and time, four and five and six are lovely numbers too...



* Here, the chanson Un, Deux, Trois by talented singer/songwriter Jessica Fichot

Insalata Proserpina: a salad for autumn

The earthy dishes of autumn, rich with harvest produce, can be too heavy for the perpetual heat of the Caribbean. When I was asked for a seasonal dish to feature, the clear choice for me was... a salad. Not my customary autumn salad (much as I love it) of slow-roasted chunks of pumpkin and sweet red beetroot, caramelised in the oven and tossed with fetta and mint and arugula to brighten the flavours. No. I wanted something light and fresh and crisp to celebrate the turning of the year.

So I chose fresh pomegranate seeds for a burst of bright acidity, with toasted pumpkin seeds for crunch and butternut squash for its sunny colour and natural sweetness.

I’ve named this salad as a homage to the legend of the hapless Persephone (known to the Romans as Proserpina) who once ate six pomegranate seeds in her captivity in the underworld, and was thence tethered irrevocably to her husband for six months of each year—six months in which her beloved earth withered into cold winter sleep, awaiting her touch in the spring.

I can’t say I blame her. Sitting for so long in the dark and the cold, who would not have been tempted by a pomegranate? The whole fruit so comfortingly heavy in the hand, the jewel-like seeds so vivid with stored sunshine... really, the surprise is that she was able to stop at six.

Insalata Proserpina

salad of finely shaved butternut squash, toasted pumpkin seeds, pomegranate and torn mint leaves in an orange, honey and hazelnut dressing

For the dressing: in a large bowl, whisk half a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a teaspoon of freshly grated orange zest and one tablespoon of hazelnut oil till nicely emulsified. Slowly add another two tablespoons of hazelnut oil, a teaspoon of honey, a good squitter of orange juice, and half a teaspoon of coriander seeds (dry-roasted and crushed), whisking gently all the while. Taste to adjust seasonings; add sea salt and cracked pepper as needed.

For the salad: toss 2 cups of fresh raw butternut squash shavings (a vegetable peeler does the job), a handful of lightly toasted pumpkin seeds, a handful of fresh pomegranate seeds (you can be generous!), and a scant handful of torn mint leaves together with the dressing.

I’ve a late thought that some peppery arugula would be a nice addition, but that can wait for another day.

note I found the finely shaved butternut squash took on an al dente pasta quality when tossed with the dressing. I should like to play with this texture some time—completely vegetal “pasta” ribbons with a good savoury sauce, perhaps.