Deduction, reductions, recipes and roasting, By Jeremy Goodwin, Oct 20, 2006

A Single Man’s Kitchen
By Jeremy Goodwin, Oct 20, 2006

Deduction, reductions, recipes and roasting

One of the great steps forward in the art of cooking was the invention of the cookbook—the ability to record and repeat recipes and pass them on to strangers. Cookbooks, of which I have hundreds, are the source of constant inspiration, and many of my original dishes are created from a mélange of other chefs’ ideas.

The process of invention is almost entirely based on my absorbing the techniques and specifics of the many great talents who have shared their genius with the world. Notable among the sources I most often refer to are household names like Julia Child, Pierre Franet, Graham Kerr (in the complete range of his incarnations) and the Bible of French cooking, Larousse Gastronomique.

There are many obscure or little-known sources too, treasures such as the Unharried Hostess, Camouflage Cuisine and an early gem by the unlikely title The Gentleman’s Companion.

Mixing the wisdom of the greats with knowledge garnered from traveling and learning about food preparation in the countries I have visited has resulted in the welcome reception that some of my experiments receive. Although detractors may rightfully claim that everything that I invent is derivative, I like to twist the tail of a local standard with a little something from a distant land.

Even something as simple as using rice wine vinegar in a salsa or a drop of Thai fish sauce in preparing fajitas can tweak the familiar sufficiently to capture attention. Not being one to throw food away, over the years I have had to eat a lot of mistakes, but it is a small price to pay compared to the rewards when something works.

I think everyone should take a few risks in the kitchen, and with the exception of the baking of bread and pastry, just treat the recipes as a general guideline. If you lack one ingredient, substitute. The preparation of food should be fun, and not an exercise in minutiae; try to keep the image of Jackson Pollack throwing primary colors at a canvas as a guide.

Trying to write the recipes for my cookbook and these articles sucks the life out of my cooking. Just stopping to measure spices and fluids breaks my rhythm, and unless I have someone to write down the quantities I lose my timing completely. Often I find that I have missed a step or omitted an ingredient in a dish I have prepared hundreds of times, or even worse, the meat is ready but the sauce is barely started.

Even with everything quantified into spoon and cup measures, it is unlikely that a recipe will turn out the same way twice. So many factors vary: the type of oregano, acidity of a tomato, brand of olive oil, strength of the garlic or even the grade and age of your peppercorn.

The recipe lacks the ability to describe the aromas, the sound of the sautéing onions, or the color of tomato paste subject to the Maillard effect.

It is that last item that may be of some interest, as it is integral in making a quick and tasty tomato sauce, expanding curry powder, or intensifying the flavor of nuts.

The chemist Louis-Camille Maillard was the first to describe a process that probably predates the first recipe, or even writing. A reaction between an amino acid and a reducing sugar is the result of applying heat to some foods. The examples you are probably most familiar with are toast, coffee, roast meat and caramel. Many recipes suggest toasting spices or nuts or browning flour for a roux, all of which result in a huge increase in the range of flavors. Ironically, it seems that many of the artificial flavorings are the result of shadowy figures in lab coats toasting an enormous variety of organic molecules, with the hope that one might taste similar to real food.

The molecular processes, although interesting to someone like me, are not nearly as important as their effects on the taste of food. When I first started making tomato sauces—first for pasta, then for chili and even for something as simple as salsa—I was often forced to reduce the acidity with sugar. The only other way I knew to take away the acid was to cook the sauces for hours. When I learned about the Maillard effect, suddenly I could produce a complex and hearty spaghetti sauce in less than an hour, including the time spent picking the herbs. So here is my secret for producing a sauce that is quick, easy and bursting with flavor.

4 ounces tomato paste
1 pound canned, stewed tomatoes
4 to 8 cloves garlic, pressed
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1 hot chile pepper
1 large onion, diced
¼ cup fresh basil, chopped
½ pound hot Italian sausage
½ pound mushrooms, sliced
½ cup sweet vermouth or Marsala
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper

Cut the sausage into one-inch pieces. Heat a skillet and add the sausage, turning it to brown evenly. It should take about five minutes.

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil until it is fragrant. Add the tomato paste and stir constantly over a high heat for three or four minutes until the color darkens—this is the Maillard effect. Be careful not to burn the paste or the result will taste like an old ashtray. Throw in the garlic, oregano, onion, chile pepper and half the basil. Cook over medium heat for five minutes. Cut the stewed tomatoes while they are still in the can—it is easier and avoids the mess. Add the vermouth to the skillet and stir it until the sauce has a uniform consistency. Add the sausage and tomatoes and reduce the heat to maintain a simmer for 15 minutes.

This is a good time to do the first tasting. Add the salt, pepper and mushrooms and cook for five more minutes, until the mushrooms begin to darken. Taste again and adjust the seasonings to please you. Just before serving, throw in the rest of the basil and stir it for about a minute.

Jeremy Goodwin is an author, frelance food writer and owner of The Best Kept Secret. He may be contacted at Jeremy@dcnet2000