Category Archives: Food

Zen and the Art of Duck Ham Bennies

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A student approaches his master and says, `Master, I have done it!  I have followed your example.  I have settled deeper and deeper into a meditative state until finding transcendence.’

The master replies, `Oh that?  Don’t worry.  It’ll pass.’

This story went through my mind this morning as I approached the final bite of my duck ham bennies.

It’s probably not a good idea to play around with eggs benedict.  It’s a Sunday Brunch classic for a reason: churchgoing has got nothing on it.

But alas, if you noticed in my entry on imperfect chocolate mousse, one of the threads I like pursuing in the kitchen, and indeed life, is transcendent failings: stumbling around in full acknowledgement of our shortcomings, and yet, aspiring for something with a tiny taste of divine.

Hence, imperfect chocolate mousse… And this morning, taking a risk with eggs benedict, what Adam and Eve surely must have eaten for breakfast every morning before smartenin’ up on that apple.

Indeed, these duck ham bennies started a week ago.  In truth, I hadn’t set out to make them.   As all good cooking stories go, this one starts with a big mistake: I fell for a special offer by my online grocer for a whole duck.

Before double clicking, I hadn’t thought too much about how my wife doesn’t eat meat if it’s red, my 5 year old daughter thinks eating duck is crueler than killing Santa Claus, and my 3 month old son has no teeth.

It’s just me and a whole duck.  Fortunately for me, when the duck arrived at the door, so did the cold weather.

It occurred to me that it might be a good moment to make duck ham.  (Here’s how: pack the duck breasts in salt for 24 hours, rinse thorougly in water, and then wrap in cheese cloth and hang in a cool, humid place for a week (50-60 degrees F).)

I tried to convince the family to turn the heat off for a week, but no can do.  So, the duck ham project was sent to the shed to hang from a hook next to my bicycles.

I have fond memories of packing meat in salt.  One of my first realisations that I was in the sh£t, as it were, at Le Jabadao, was a moment early in the apprenticeship, when Emmanuel, the chef, baked a large sea bass in a giant sleeping bag of salt.

The theory behind this practice is that the flesh of the fish will be tender and taste most like the sea, as its juices are sealed in tight by a salt crust.  But I actually think this is quite overstated (sorry River Cottage).

The better reason for salting fish is simpler: a lot of salt is fun to touch and very pleasurable to look at.  It’s also fun to conceal things like fish in salt.  It’s also a lot of fun to crack the salt encasing after it’s hardened from the baking.

And then of course, there is the gradual build up of anticipation that comes with not knowing what will be inside when the salt crust is peeled away in chunks.

Baked fish?  A shiny pearl?  Who knows?

After 24 hours packed in salt, the duck breast was still duck breast, but smaller in size, an even deeper maroon, and a bit more stiff.

After a week hanging in cheese cloth in my garage, I could hardly sleep not knowing what the next day might bring.   So like a 34 year old boy on Christmas morning, I ran out into my garage in my skivvies whilst still dark to fetch my hanging duck breasts.

I peeled off the cheese cloth and alas!  They had handlebars, cranks, pedals, wheels, and a chain!  Okay… Not that exciting: sliced, they look like proscuitto.

So, I didn’t know what to do with them this morning until my daughter asked for scones for breakfast.  With this provocation, beaty was born.

Here’s how I made the duck ham bennies:

First, I made red currant scones for my daughter.  Here is a reliable recipe.  Just add red currants.

Then, I thinly sliced the duck ham on the bias.  This requires using a very sharp knife.

I seared some of the duck ham in a touch of hot olive oil in a saucepan in order to get some crispy bits.  I also left some as is for some not so crispy bits.  In addition to contrasting textures, the color contrast is nice too.

I put the crispy duck ham on top of a sliced and buttered red currant scone.  Then, I put the `raw’ duck ham on top of the black peppered poached eggs.

Finally, I topped it all with some apple mint chutney that was recently given to us as a gift.   The bright sweet/savoury chutney cut through the richness of the dish, rather than burying/smothering/bothering it in hollandaise sauce.

While eating this dish, I forgot I was alive.   Once I remembered, I felt thankful.

Cooking with canned fish

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I woke up this morning feeling I needed to make special.  So I thought to myself, `What about a comfy resting place for a friendly mouse?’

First I put a nice bed of young green tendrils on a plate.  Then, I placed a ring of mash leftover from the previous evening in the centre of that bed.  (I made this mash by boiling new potatoes, blanching and chopping asparagus, and smashing the two with a whisk, whilst adding plain yogurt, low-fat mayo, lemon juice, and salt and pepper to taste.)

On top of my ring of mash, I added tomato confit.  (In my frigo yesterday, I had 6 tomatoes, which were the size and ripeness of racquetballs.  So, I cut off their caps, brushed on some olive oil, then added salt, pepper, and fennel seed.  I baked them at a low temperature over 4-5 hours, flipping them once half-way through.)

On top of the tomato confit, I placed some canned fish, which I think is the best nutrition and power-packed taste per pence out there.  I used what I had in stock: mackerel in spicy tomato sauce.  I heated up the fish by putting the slightly cracked open can in a bath of simmering water, whilst making a poached egg, which I placed on top of the fish.  (I didn’t do the egg and the canned fish in the same pot, but that would have been genius.  I’m only an amateur.)

Before eating this tower of power, I rinsed the empty fish can and placed it outside my door for a mouse.  Welcome home, neighbour.

Miami Vice pasta

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I don’t know why black ink pasta makes me think of Don Johnson and Miami Vice, but it does.  When I went to the fish monger over the weekend, he said to me that the squid was caught in Scotland the day before.  After saying that (and who knows whether he was telling the truth), I could have cut the squid in rings and tossed it with dog food, and it would have probably tasted good.  But alas, the ink-squirting slime tube had a higher calling.  

I cleaned the squid (how to) and milked the ink sac into the well of fresh-pasta-dough-to-be to make the black pasta.  For the dough, I used two cups of flour and 4 eggs (how to).  The flour was a mix of finely milled durum and wheat flours (You could use Gold Medal All-Purpose and be fine.)  I kneaded the dough, put in the frigo for 15 minutes, then rolled out the dough with a rolling pin on a well-floured kitchen table.  I loosely rolled up the pasta, cut some fettucine strips with a chef’s knife, and then hung em up on a clothes hanger.  

Yes, it’s a lot of work.  But Don Johnson didn’t get to where he is in life by cutting any corners.  

I cut the squid into rectangles, and then cross-hatched the interior flesh with a chef’s knife —- being sure not to cut all the way through.  This causes the squid to roll up in a nice shape/pattern when flashed with heat.    The trick to cooking squid is to either flash it with heat or cook it for hours.  Anything in-between, save yourself the money and just chew on your bicycle tyre for dinner instead.  

For the squid, I sauteed the tube pieces and tentacles in olive oil with freshly minced garlic —- then added parsley, chili flakes, a few roasted cherry tomatoes, juice from half-a-lemon, and salt/pepper.  

Once plated up, put on a white sportcoat to contrast the black pasta.

Imperfect Chocolate Mousse

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When reading the great philosophers, Tolstoy recommends substituting chocolate mousse whenever you come across ambiguous platonic terms such as will, spirit, soul, and love.  Your reading might make more sense, or at least be more pleasurable.

Chocolate mousse is supposed to be transcendent.  But the mousse I make is a humble shadow of the divine sort.  People stilll seem to like it anyway.  Originally an accidental mistake, it has now matured into an imperfect intention.

My sister-in-law has asked for the recipe.   Like colour-by-number, I’m against recipes in principle.  In fact, the imperfect chocolate mousse is a good reason why.  If I had followed a recipe, I probably would not have happened upon it.  But she’s my sister-in-law.  So I’m not allowed to say no.  I’ll transcribe what I did and feel free to do it in your own way.

To make imperfect chocolate mousse, I commit the highest of chocolate sins by intentionally curdling the chocolate.  This produces a chocolate mousse that has bits in it.  It really isn’t mousse anymore.  But I like food with bits in them.  It’s evidence that the food is probably hand-made and therefore imperfect.

Once when I ate smooth, perfect chocolate mousse, I thought about cafeteria mashed potatoes: the sort of mashed potatoes shot through a gun or rehydrated with water, sitting in a large aluminum tub on a heat plate.  Its plastic wrap cover is stretching and pooling in condensation.  That’s gross.  I like mashed potatoes with bits.  I like chocolate `mousse’ with bits.  Oh well.

But if you use this recipe for guests, be warned.  You will likely have a foodie at the table who will criticise it.  This is the criticism of someone likely afraid of difference and trying to exert their superiority by claims to culinary knowledge.  Tell them they must have missed the joke.

`Duh, it’s intentionally ironic mousse.  I’m anti-emulsion.’

Never invite them over again.

With that out of the way, let’s turn to making the bitty mousse.  Here is the recipe, tested in my kitchen this morning, and transcribed by my daughter:

Now I’ll translate her transcription.

This recipe makes a small bowl of chocolate that will probably serve 4 people, unless 2 of them are my wife and daughter.

First, source your ingredients.  It’s chocolate mousse.  Your pleasure comes down to the chocolate you use.  I use Menier 70% cocoa patisserie chocolate.  You’ll probably be fine as long as you don’t use Hershey’s Kisses.

You need two eggs, preferably at room temperature.   You’ll also need 1/2 cup of powdered sugar and 100 ml (1/2 cup) of cream.  You also need 2 large bowls, one for making whipped cream and one for making meringue.   Finally, you need one small bowl for whipping egg yolks, a double boiler, and a hand or table mixer will really help.

Begin by separating your egg yolks and whites, and break your chocolate into small chunks.  Bring up water to a low boil in a double boiler.  If you don’t have a double boiler, just set a pyrex or heatproof bowl on top of your pot of water.  Voila.  As Fancy Nancy says, that means `Ta-da!’

Make a meringue by whipping egg whites into a soft peak and then incorporate 1/4 cup (30g) of powdered sugar.  Your pale whites will turn into a bowl of magical pearl fluff.  If they don’t, then you might be making doubly imperfect chocolate mousse, which may be better than mine.  Put meringue in the fridge.

Make your whipped cream.  Whip your cream until it becomes light and fluffy.  You can overwhip cream quite easily and curdle it.  Don’t do that unless you want to make triply imperfect chocolate mousse, which may be better than the double or single version.  When they are light and fluffy, incorporate the remaining 1/4 cup (30g) of powdered sugar.  Put whipped cream in the fridge.

Now to the curdled chocolate.  Whip your egg yolks quickly.  Put chocolate bits in double boiler over low boil.  Stir while your chocolate melts into a glossy, smooth batter.  Once the chocolate is fully melted take it off the heat.  Slowly pour egg yolks into the chocolate.  The chocolate should curdle and loose its sheen.

(If you want to make boringly perfect mousse, add 2 oz of warm water to the chocolate before melting.  And, let the chocolate cool down for 2 minutes before adding the egg yolks.  Then proceed.)

Take the whipped cream, meringue, and curdled chocolate.  Put them at three corners of a triangle inside a large bowl and admire what you have done so far.  Then fold them together very quickly. Fold by running a rubber spatula under, over and in between the ingredients, whipping quick and long figure eights.  If you think too much about how to fold, you are probably doing it wrong.  Just relax and think about the perfect number eight.

Chill the mousse and you are ready for imperfection.  I like to serve mine from a chipped bowl.