Monday, December 13, 2010

Hot to Trot(ters)

If you watched last night's pork-centric episode of Food(ography) on the Cooking Channel, then you know that pig's feet (a.k.a. trotters) and I go way back. I grew up eating them relatively plain. Just pile 'em high on a plate, and I'm happy. But for most people, a tasty little disguise is probably the best way to introduce trotters into your repertoire. Here's the recipe for the Pig's Feet Wasabi Griddle Cakes I made on the show. I served this to a crowd of Philadelphians at a "Southern Hospitality" dinner at my friend Mitch Prensky's restaurant Supper, back in September. People went bananas for them. Trust me, eating pig's feet isn't as weird as you may think, and they're actually really delicious.

Pig’s Feet Wasabi Griddle Cakes

Pig’s Feet:
3 pig’s feet
1 gallon water
3 cloves garlic
1 knob ginger sliced
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon peppercorns
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 lemon sliced

Griddle Cake Batter:
1 cup whole wheat flour
2 ears of corn shucked
1/2 cup cornmeal
1/4 cup wasabi powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 1/4 cup buttermilk
1 bunch chopped scallions

Clarified butter for cooking

Sweet sorghum to finish for garnish

For pig’s feet:
Soak pig’s feet in water for an hour. Drain pig’s feet from water and use a kitchen torch to remove the tiny hairs. Put into a pot with the rest of the ingredients, turn on heat to simmer. Braise four hours, until tender. Pull out finished pig’s feet from the braising liquid, transfer to a cutting board and separate meat from bones.

For griddle cakes:
Put all the dry ingredients into a bowl. Whisk the eggs and buttermilk in a separate bowl, then combine the wet and dry ingredients to make a pancake-like batter.

Fold the pig’s feet into the batter along with some chopped scallions. Drizzle a bit of clarified butter into a skillet and fry coin sized griddle cakes in the pan, about 45 seconds on each side.

Serve warm with a drizzle of sorghum on top.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Porking Out

I recently filmed a segment for the Cooking Channel show Food(ography) with Mo Rocca. The episode is all about pork, and I cooked pigs' feet wasabi griddle cakes and pork shoulder. The show is a bit more cerebral and scholarly than most of the food-based shows on TV these days. It – and some of the other shows on The Cooking Channel – remind me of the early days of The Food Network when the programming was actually about, well, food. For all of Mario’s hamming in front of the camera, I still miss Molto Mario and the free-style nature of the years past when food TV was still in its infancy. I think The Cooking Channel is attempting to recapture some of that with new faces, a more natural and less scripted style.

For this shoot, it took about six hours for what amounts to a final product of a few minutes. It’s like starting with 100 pounds of bones that will end up becoming a few quarts of sauce. But I loved the intensity and attention to detail involved in getting every frame correct. There’s a railway just down the street from my restaurant, and when we were shooting outside, the trains would howl past every 5 minutes. Funny, when you live with these sounds for so long, you don’t hear them anymore. For the production crew, however, it was crucial not to have even the slightest disruptive noise. So, we’d shoot for a few minutes and then wait till the train cleared (and these are long trains), then do it again with each oncoming train. It delayed the shoot, but the patience and professionalism of the crew were inspiring.

My only regret is not getting to meet Mo. He’s such a goofball.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

What It's Like to Win "Iron Chef America"

Last winter I taped an episode of "Iron Chef America" in which I competed against Jose Garces, the newest Iron Chef and the renowned chef/owner of six well-known Latin and Spanish restaurants in Philadelphia and Chicago. Some of you probably saw the episode when it aired on Food Network on November 7th. The secret ingredient? Tongue and Cheek. Having grown up eating the stuff, I was thrilled to get to showcase the versatility of these underappreciated cuts.

The battle itself was one of the toughest hours of my life...and then there was the judging! Chef Garces created some fantastic dishes, but in the end my guys and I emerged as the victors by a 5-point margin. It still feels like I dreamt it.

Since the episode aired, I've had so many people ask, "What did it feel like to win?" One of the people who asked was Plate magazine editor Chandra Ram. If you're curious, here's what I told her.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Welcome to the Inferno



Each year, the night before Halloween, we close the restaurant for our annual celebration of spicy foods, the Inferno Dinner. It started about 3 years ago at our friend Rishabh’s home. Every weekend we would get together and try to out-spice each other, and one weekend he suggested, “Why don’t you do a spicy dinner at 610 and we’ll invite all the spice heads we know to test their mettle against your recipes?” And just like that, Inferno Dinner was born.

It started out as a hard-core group of idiots, maybe 15 of us, seeing how much heat we could handle as each course gets progressively spicier. It starts with a little throat tickling which leads to a few beads of perspiration around the upper lip, a little heavy breathing and a few noses being blown. This is around third course. Two more courses and your vision starts to blur, your hearing is crippled, breathing is now a succession of deep breaths trying to cool off the tongue. Water is pointless by now. Milk would help but that would be admitting defeat. Sweat is now rolling down your back, your cheeks, sprouting from the crown of your scalp. Extremities tingle, even tremble. Your chest is on fire. And somewhere beneath all this pain is a heartbeat of euphoria trying to surface. And, yeah, we thought this was a hoot. Until the next morning when nature called.

I never planned on doing the dinner again, but word got out about our little night of pain and I started to get calls from customers who figured there was a secret password to get invited to the next one. Strangers came out of the woodworks asking me about a rumor they heard. It felt like I was in some strange incarnation of Fight Club where all these otherwise straight-laced folks were asking me to punish them with spice for that cathartic high they were seeking.

So we decided to do it again the following year. We didn’t advertise it but we let all our friends know they were invited. About 40 people showed up. They came nervous but excited. The dining room was quiet and polite when I retreated to the kitchen. By the 4th course, I took a peek out into the dining room and could hear a communal giggle. Neckties were on the floor, towels were being handed out. By the last course, there was a shift from hilarity to near insanity. One woman was crying and appeared to be convulsing, another man was practically shirtless. Everyone was cursing. And everyone seemed to be loving it. I can honestly say I have never witnessed anything like it before. It was almost cultish the way the room rose together into this crescendo of delightful pain.

The next day, I got a phone call from a woman who wanted to tell me that her husband attended the previous night’s dinner. He had come home drunk, moaned all night long, then vomited. He was now on the couch still in pain. I patiently waited for the lawsuit threat and was floored to hear her next question: “So when’s the next one?”

This year, we couldn’t contain it from the press. A story ran in the Courier-Journal. Over a 110 people came this year with many, many more turned away. It was my best Inferno Dinner to date, I thought. It’s not men anymore; it’s grandmothers, churchgoers, Republicans and Democrats. It’s punk rockers and Southern ladies. It’s taken on a life of its own. I don’t know where to take it from here. It seems like it may have peaked this year. Or maybe not, maybe this is just the beginning. Unifying through the love of heat. Who knows, crazier things have happened.

Here’s the menu we did this year. It’s simple but the heat creeps up on you. I spent a long time developing this progression but I’m sure we can improve upon it. I guess we’d better...for next year.

Inferno Dinner 2010

It is always by way of pain that one arrives at pleasure.

- Marquis de Sade


Ahi Tuna Poke Salad with Shrimp

Mango, Avocado, Hearts of Palm & Wasabi Vinaigrette

Germany, Henkell, Trocken Sekt


Lamb Kalbi Taco

Kimchi – Chipotle puree

Pickled Jalapeno & Pork Rind Sesame Crumbs

Goose Island Brewery, Pere Jacques


Bird’s Eye Thai Chili and Lemongrass Soup with Pulled Pork,

Snap Peas, Mushrooms, Broken Noodles, Spicy Carrot Froth

Alsace, Binner Gewurtztraminer, 2005

Habanero Rubbed Swordfish Escovitch with Chorizo Smashed Plantains

Carneros, Etude Rose, 2008


Simmered Goat with Bhut Jolokia (Ghost Pepper), Basmati Rice and Yogurt-Mint Sauce

Valencia, Celler Del Roure, Les Alcusses, 2007


Photos: Matt Jamie via Facebook

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Profile of a Sorghum Farmer










Danny R. Townsend is a rock star in the sorghum world. He is a fifth generation sorghum farmer and producer. His sorghum has been twice voted the National Champion Sweet Sorghum. His sorghum is revered in these parts and beyond.

I was introduced to him by Matt Jamie of Bourbon Barrel Foods whose mission is to bring sorghum to the mainstream – to your breakfast table. We toured Danny’s endless fields of sorghum and tobacco. We tasted the cane straight from the ground. Cut with a knife at the base and split between the 4th and 5th notch from the base, that’s where the best juice comes from. And although it was still weeks before ready to harvest, the juice ran sweet and refreshing, a little milky, a touch green. It’s hard to explain – I guess it tasted like sorghum.

So what is sorghum? It’s the juice of the plant, Sorghum bicolor (L.) Moench, a grass technically, that is boiled down and clarified until it reaches an amber – brown color with the viscosity of honey. It is a natural sweetener like honey but with a flavor that is deeper, think grassy caramel with notes of vanilla, coffee and leather. But it is not molasses, a by-product that is often plagued by a burnt tar aftertaste.

Sometimes, you’ll see a quaint bottle of sorghum with a mule painted on it. That’s how they used to squeeze the juice, with big rollers pushed by mules. That’s about as practical as jumping in a barrel and pressing wine grapes with your bare feet. Today it’s all mechanized and Danny is one of the pioneers of this modernization. The juice is brought in through large conveyor belts, milled through mechanized rollers and boiled in large pans that have partitions so the syrup slowly snakes its way down the chute while being clarified. Depending on the time of year and the producer, sorghum can be a light amber to a roasted brown color. It’s all a matter of preference.

Danny talks quickly with a hushed monotone that takes some getting used to. He chuckles after almost every sentence. Like most farmers, he messes with other projects ad infinitum; tomatoes, corn, potatoes; he collects old machinery, he’s working on producing ethanol, etc. And he also makes some damn good sorghum. Did I tell you he’s won the Sorghum Championships? Twice?

Originally brought over from Africa as a wonder plant to compete with sugar cane, sorghum was pretty much forgotten once refined sugar and corn syrup became the norm. It is now almost exclusively grown in Kentucky and Tennessee with probably less than a few hundred growers in the country. The ones that do grow it tend to be slightly obsessed with it. And so it is with consumers who taste it. I’d never heard of it before coming to Kentucky and now it has become a staple in my pantry. Anywhere you need sweetness with an added layer of flavor, sorghum does the trick: BBQ sauce, braising liquid, sweet syrups, glazes, soups, marinades, pickling liquid, even cocktails. Ice cream, berries and sorghum drizzle is simple but oh so complex. Slow braised brisket with sorghum glazed and baked into it until the meat shimmers with promise is sublime. Sorghum with stout beer is an incredible braising liquid for winter months. Sorghum can be thinned out with a little water and brushed on anything from scallops to foie gras for a taste of something sweet yet mysterious.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Korean BBQ: The Holy Trinity

Reprinted From Theme Magazine and The Utne Reader, Sept 2009


BBQ: the holy trinity of salt, sweet and smoke. A good BBQ involves every sensory emotion that starts with a steaming mouthful of meat and finishes ten ribs and three root beers later in the cradle of a childhood memory when you could eat to your heart’s delight without worrying about indigestion.

Mine has always been the memory of growing up with the socially unacceptable smell of garlic. All the staples of Korean BBQ require it: like Kalbi with its charcoal fired sweet soy or Pork Ribs in sweet fermented chili paste thick enough to be a meal in itself or those special evenings when relatives were in town, we’d go out and treat ourselves to tripe and shaved cow’s tongue so thin it would curl and wrinkle with blackened heat as soon as it hit the sizzling iron griddle. My mother would force me to chew Doublemint after every one of these meals. They gave them out free at Korean restaurants. We were supposed to hide the joy of our garlic breath from the rest of the world. I always spit my gum out as soon as we hit the pavement.

BBQ is supposed to linger in your mouth and a good one can stay on for hours. Far from being shameful, BBQ breath is a proclamation, a proud stance, perhaps even a bit subversive. Because a really good BBQ is not just ribs and corn, it ventures into the wild territory of mysterious cuts and farm animals that polite society will never accept. The ribs of a pig? Yes, there is respect in that but when you’re looking to get serious, try mutton. Mutton is sheep bred older than a year. Anything younger is lamb. So mutton is a bit tougher, with more character and age but less delicate, less desired. Yes, mutton is like that washed up actor doing infomercials.

But there is one place in America where mutton shines. Amidst the grain mills and rolling hills of the Ohio Valley, the town of Owensboro, KY is small, unassuming and friendly. You would never know that it would be home to one of the country’s best BBQ. Until you look up and see the sign: “If It’s Not Owensboro Barbecue, It’s Not Real Barbecue.” Here, the mutton is simply but diligently cooked: cured in salt and spices, slow smoked over hickory chips for over ten hours until it falls apart to the touch with a burnt crackle of skin. Smoky, tender, tangy, messy with a vinegary mop of BBQ sauce for dipping. The mutton has a distinctive smell that makes it stand apart from the all too familiar pork and beef. It can only be described as the smell of character, something that comes only with age.

At the Moonlite, the way to go is the buffet. You are likely to eat yourself into a coma if you aren’t careful. Alongside the mutton, there is the requisite beef and pork, not to mention the greens, mac-n-cheese, potato salad and so on. But it is the mutton that keeps everyone coming back. Ten thousand pounds of mutton a week, is what the owner told me. The week I was there, they went through ten thousand and twenty pounds. In the cavernous dining room, I sat there at a table by myself with a plate of mutton, corn and a bibb around my neck. Forty minutes later, and two more trips to the buffet, my meal was over but my emotions were just starting to stir. Sitting back with a glaze over my eyes and listening to the clamor of chairs and heavy plates and simple conversation, I could have easily been in one of those brightly lit barbeque restaurants in the Koreatown of my youth. Mutton? Tripe? How different are they really? You can taste the hard work that goes into it, and that’s all that really counts. You can sense the satisfied laughter of the diners as they head for home and that is a universal feeling. I awoke and realized that, unlike my childhood, I had to drive myself home. It was near closing time. I noticed a bowl of mints on the counter, you know, for your breath. Free. But, it had hardly been touched. I always knew this was a good place for BBQ, but I knew right then that this was simply a good place to be.



A recipe for Mutton (with a Korean kick)

Make this first:

Chili BBQ Sauce

1 cup fermented Korean Chili paste
2 tbspns strong red miso paste
1/3 cup vinegar
¼ cup orange juice fresh squeezed
¼ cup sesame oil
1 tspns cayenne pepper
4 tbspns brown sugar
2 tbspns white sugar
2 tspns garlic powder
one finely chopped scallion
water

Mix all ingredients together and whisk briskly until you get a nice loose sauce. If the consistency is too thick, thin it out with a little water.


For the mutton, you will need:

- A temperature control grill or smoker
(if you don’t have the above, an oven will do fine)

- about 5 lbs hickory chips
- 1 shoulder of mutton 4 – 5 lbs (substitute lamb if you can’t find mutton)
- salt
- black pepper
- ground allspice
- 20 cloves garlic peeled

First, make a salt rub by mixing the salt to pepper to allspice at a 2:1:1 ratio.

Prepare your mutton by rubbing this mixture generously all over

Now make some slits around the mutton with a paring knife about an inch deep. Slide your cloves of garlic in these slits.

Let your mutton cure now for about four hours or overnight in your refrigerator.

Set your grill, smoker or oven to 220 degrees. Add your hickory chips. If you are using an oven and you want to go the extra step, burn your hickory chips on a gas stovetop. When they start to smoke, throw then in a pan and set in the oven below your roast. (You will have to repeat this many times to mimic the smokiness you would get from a burner but I believe in you.)

Slowly roast your mutton for about 6 – 8 hours being careful to turn and baste it continuously with the rendered fat.

Your mutton is ready when the outside is nice and brown but the inside is falling apart and tender.

Now dip into your Chili BBQ sauce and enjoy.