RICE IS NOT NICE

Rice pudding has been on my mind lately and decided today would be a good day to make it. Señor O and I had a pretty heavy brunch on Sunday and today’s lunch was also on the hefty side, so no official meal was cooked today, leaving the afternoon open for a simple dessert.

I’ve only made rice pudding once before, the reason being I was pretty grossed out by it in the past; the texture was all wrong. However, riz au lait was part of my culinary school curriculum and it was during Session 19 of Level 2 that I was properly re-introduced to this dessert. I liked it. Lots.

In preparation for this afternoon’s riz au lait, some research was conducted. Joy of Cooking, Julia Child, Doña Angélica, and a number of random websites all cooked the rice in water prior to combining it with milk. My school’s version mixed them from the get-go, then baked for about 40 minutes. Easy enough.

There was no trouble at school, but of course, there was here. At the end of the designated time I pulled out the rice, and to my dismay, it was still drenched in milk. It hadn’t puddinged at all.

I was not smiling. This was supposed to be a breeze.

I moved the dish to the stovetop and decided to revert to methods I’d read about, namely stirring till most of the milk was absorbed. It was at this juncture that the bottom of the pot began to turn nasty and brown. I poured out the swamp rice into a new glass Pyrex and called it quits. I didn’t have another suitable container if this one scorched, so that would have to be that.

A lot displeased and not a little bit chagrined, I made one last, desperate attempt to save – or at the very least conceal - my rice pudding. I put it into a crème brûlée mold, sprinkled it with sugar, and torched it.

My pyrotechnics did the trick, and the rice was delicious, but I’m still bothered. What was meant to be a single-dish, super-easy to prep dessert turned into a major dish pileup. Next time I'm going stovetop all the way. And I might try coconut milk and pineapples instead of vanilla bean and orange zest.


P.S.
The rice pudding was perfectly delicious a day later. It's cold and refreshing, all vanilla bean-y and citrusy...which has prompted me to print the recipe:

100 g. arborio rice (about 1/2 C.)
1 L. whole milk (about 1 quart or 4 C.)
1 TBSP. grated orange zest
2 tsp. grated lemon zest
1/2 vanilla bean pod, split and scraped
pinch of salt
100 g. granulated sugar, split 50/50 (about 6 TBSP.)
2 TBSP. butter
1 egg yolk

In a saucepan, bring to a boil milk + orange zest + lemon zest + vanilla bean + salt.

Add rice + 50 g. (3 TBSP.) sugar and cover with a parchment paper lid. Finish cooking in a 350˚F oven (45 - 60 minutes -- the rice should be tender and the milk absorbed. It may take longer, as in my case, depending on your oven).

When done, add butter + yolk + remaining 50 g. (3 TBSP.) sugar. Remove vanilla pod.

Serve warm or chilled.

RESTAURANTING: GITLO'S DIM SUM BAKERY

Though I lived in New York for six years, I am deeply ashamed to admit that I never once ventured into Chinatown for dim sum. Actually, now that I think about it, I realize that I severely underate the entire time I was a resident of that city. I’m determined to change that in my new city: I will eat my way through Boston and its outlying area.

Aside from being lazy and expecting to have all the time in the world to explore the international cuisine of New York, I honestly never felt comfortable going to Chinatown because I would simply not know where to go nor what to expect. Sometimes it’s hit-and-miss and you just need to keep going back to different places, but when it comes to food, and especially food whose origins and traditions I’m unacquainted with, I want a recommendation. Dim sum didn’t happen for me because I lacked a guide, but Lady Luck seems determined to change that because not only did my new friend D of Clear Flour open the doors to a haven of bread, she also took me to Gitlo’s Dim Sum Bakery, her new favorite spot for dim sum.


164 Brighton Avenue, Allston, MA 02134
 / 617-782-CAKE

Gitlo’s is small and modest, seating I’d say between 20 and 25 patrons. D and I went at an off time and had the whole place to ourselves, which was just as lovely as the owner, Gitlo. He was wearing a super-cool, Hawaiian shirt. “Straight from Hawaii,” he informed me.


I left the ordering up to D - here is a woman who is going to be my bosom buddy because not only does she make bread and like to eat, she is an ardent pork lover, just like me.

We had:

#33 Sesame pork buns
Soft bread rolls topped with toasty, nutty sesame seeds, filled with bits of moist port. Delicious.

#8 Char siu bao

Pea pod stem and shrimp dumplings. These gorgeous little purses looked like delicate underwater creatures. The pea pod stems were fresh and tasted wonderfully green.

#3 Seaweed shui-mai
The wrinkly exterior of these pork-filled treats reminded me of morel mushrooms. They were meaty and plump, like a baby’s cheek.

#15 Crispy daikon cakes
My favorite. The little square cakes came piled on a plate, straight from the fryer. They looked like home-style potatoes, golden and crisp, but when I bit into them, a satiny lava filled my mouth. It was like a French fry with an oozing middle, like those bubble gums with the runny insides. I was pretty full by the time the daikon cakes arrived at the table, but, you guessed it, each little square disappeared.

I’ll be heading there again very soon to continue my study of dim sum, as Señor O was quite peeved at not having been brought along.

GIVE US THIS DAY

Bread is the perfect food. There’s no arguing that – it’s even in the Lord’s Prayer: “give us today our daily bread.” I know I’m interpreting that very literally, but there it is, in black and white.

I used to get my bread at Fairway on the Upper West Side and was pretty happy with it. No additives, no less-than-2%-of-the-following-impossible-to-pronounce ingredients. When I moved away from the UWS it was, for the most part, back to the bread aisle at the supermarket. There I would walk past Wonder and Sunbeam, Arnold and Nature’s Own. It got to a point where it didn’t really matter what I bought. All of these breads were wimpy and forgettable.

Tired of blah bread, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’d been to the library recently in search of a Boston cream pie recipe (coming soon!) and along the way found a recipe for honey whole wheat bread in Greg Patent’s Baking in America. Mr. Patent failed to inform this dimwitted reader that perhaps her standard-sized Kitchen Aid (aka Kiki) would be no match for seven cups of flour. I should’ve known it wasn’t, but if there’s a recipe in a cookbook meant for home cooks, I expect it to work with standard kitchen appliances. My little Kiki started bucking like a bronco, and rather than risk breaking her neck, I turned her off and plunked the dough onto the counter. Now I would truly have to take matters into my own hands – I would have to knead.

Kneading was not easy. I’m too short to really bear down on the dough, so I strapped on some heels, but they didn’t help my situation - the heels provided height but not much in the way of support. Back in sneakers, I stood on my tip-toes and tried my best to work the dough, pretending all the time I was Lady Macbeth, outing the damned spot. Sweat started beading my brow and the bile starting bubbling. “I hate Greg Patent!” I muttered. But I kept going. I was scared because the dough was dry and crumbly and for the first few minutes, my labors did nothing to bring it together. It wasn’t smooth or elastic, just an ill-formed, uncooperative lump. To make matters worse, I kept remembering what my old boss W. told me about dough: “It’s alive.” Surely, I was killing it.

What a lump.

I continued to fret while the bread was rising. It wasn’t smooth and beautiful, but heavyset and squat. Into the oven went two loaves anyway and without waiting for it to cool I cut a slice and buttered it. It was dense and a little chewy, bland in flavor, and OK at best.

Squat, toad-like loaves.

I’d decided to make bread despite the fact that I had a date the very next day to meet a real baker at a bakery a friend described as “THE BEST BREAD EVER:” Clear Flour Bakery (www.clearflourbread.com). Clear Flour specializes in the production of French and Italian breads that are real: no additives, no preservatives. My new baker friend D. gave me a tour, which was awesome: Brobdingnagian mixers, about 50 times bigger and more powerful than my dinky little Kiki, imposing deck ovens, buckets of dough, stacks of beautiful frielings and bannetons (round and rectangular molds for shaping and proofing bread), and the main event: bread. There were baguettes, ficelles, olive rolls made with green olives, focaccia smothered with onions, hearty rolls with studded with nuts and plump raisins bearing the very poetic name of Paris night.

Bannetons.

Big mama mixers.

There is but a small area in front of the counter at it was packed solid at all times. Everyone, staff and visitors alike, were very kind, though, letting me be all interrupt-y with my camera.






I bought an assortment and Señor O and I promptly went about the business of eating it. The ficelle was perfectly crunchy and French, as was its larger friend, baguette. I didn’t get to the baguette till this morning and, swoon, it was so perfect in its simplicity and straightforwardness that I was completely swept away. I spread some good European butter on it and ate away. I also treated myself to a Paris night roll with some apricot preserves I brought back from a recent trip to Rome. I haven’t enjoyed breakfast this thoroughly since I can’t remember when. Thank you, Clear Flour for keeping it real.

A dream of Paris.

BANANA FANA FO FANA

Banana bread isn’t a particular favorite in my book, mainly because I’ve either bought or experimented with recipes that were disappointing. The commercial variety inevitably taste over-banana-ed, no doubt because they’re chock-full of additives and artificial flavors. Like fake grape products, counterfeit banana tastes like kiddie cough syrups and other over-the-counter cures. My pickle with the recipes I’ve tested is that they’re usually rubbery or dry as a bone.

Enter Nancy Silverton and her glorious book, Pastries from La Brea Bakery. Looking through her recipes I came across banana nut loaf, and thought, “Hey, if anyone can make a good banana nut loaf, if anyone can redeem it, it’s Nancy Silverton.” So I bought some bananas and patiently waited for them to get nice and black outside. Today, when the bananas, at last, were mature enough, I mashed them up and mixed them in with heaps of chopped, toasted nuts and spices.

Make sure bananas are really ripe.

DO chop the nuts with a knife – using the food processor will leave behind uneven pieces and nut powder.

Things got off to a good start, because even as I began chopping the nuts, their toasted scent reached my nose, mingling with the heady aroma of ripe bananas; they were perfectly matched. My skepticism over banana bread waning, I caught myself anticipating a sweet reward, and Nancy delivered. What came out of the oven was darkly tanned on the outside and moist inside. The cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg provided warmth as well as refinement – this banana nut loaf is for grown-ups, a far cry from those cheap attempts you may be used to eating.

BANANA-NUT LOAF
Adapted from Pastries from La Brea Bakery by Nancy Silverton

2/3 c. walnuts
2/3 c. pecans
3 to 4 bananas, very ripe, mashed to equal 1 ¼ c., plus 1 whole banana for garnish
2 extra-large eggs
1 ½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 stick unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1" cubes
1 ¼ tsp. baking soda
2 ½ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. kosher salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
¾ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
Scant ¼ tsp. ground cloves
1 TBSP. Poppy seeds
½ c. granulated sugar, plus 1 tsp. for sprinkling
¼ c. + 2 TBSP. Light brown sugar, lightly packed
1 ½ c. unbleached AP flour

Adjust the oven rack to the middle position and preheat oven to 325˚F. Spread the nut on a baking sheet at toast in the oven until lightly browned, about 8 to 10 minutes. Shake the pan halfway to ensure the nuts toast evenly. Cool, chop coarsely, and set aside.

Turn the oven up to 350˚F.

In a medium bowl, whisk the banana puree, eggs, and vanilla to combine. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and poppy seeds on low, 2 to 3 minutes, until softened. Add the sugars and turn the mixer up to medium, mixing another 3 to 4 minutes until fluffy, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed.
Add the flour and banana mixture alternately in 3 batches, beginning with the flour.

Fold in the nuts.

Pour batter into pan.

Cut two ¼" strips from the additional banana, slicing down the entire length. Arrange the two C shapes on the top the loaf, staggered, with the two ends slightly interlocking with other in the center. Sprinkle about 1 tsp. of granulated sugar over the surface.

Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until nicely browned and firm to the touch.

The bananas on top were amazing.

I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM

I’ve been cooking at home these past few days, but am itching to venture out to see what there is to see and naturally, eat what there is to eat, here in Boston. A friend who used to live here was kind enough to email me a list of suggestions, and I went on my first outing yesterday. The destination: Toscanini’s. There I met the gracious owner, Gus, whose joviality and eagerness to share restaurant recommendations brightened what had begun as a lousy day. Although Gus had to rush out on some deliveries, I was left with a cup of the most delectable ice cream I’ve had this side of the Atlantic. I will no longer have to yearn for my Roman gelati because Toscanini’s cool confections are sheer bliss.

Toscanini's, 899 Main Street, Cambridge, MA

I eyed the chalkboard menu greedily, reading through flavors like cake batter, lemon vanilla, orange chocolate, khulfee (cardamom and nuts), sweet cream, ginger snap molasses, malted vanilla, and maple walnut. Ultimately I settled on cocoa pudding and cherries and chips.


Cocoa pudding was ultra-thick and chewy, not like freezer section ice cream that melts in your mouth without resistance. If you stuck your spoon in and pulled it out you’d feel it tugging back, like quicksand. I always fantasize of chocolate cake like the one Harriet the Spy used to have after school every day, dense and substantial, but I have yet to find the nonfiction version. However, this cocoa pudding is the closest thing I’ve had to it. Despite its being ice cream, the texture is very nearly cake.


I ate through the gooey chocolate and arrived at cherries and chips. This is ice cream you want to drip out the bottom of your cone, down your arm and elbow, just so you can lick it off. And, as if the gobs of pink, creamy goodness aren’t enough, there were real cherries, dark maroon and fleshy – you could even see where the stem and pit had once been. Delightful, delightful, delightful.

PERSONAL BAGGAGE

I’ve always puzzled over the name of this dish: pastel de maleta. Pastel, in Spanish, means pie, and maleta, in various Spanish-speaking countries means suitcase. So this preparation’s name translates very literally into suitcase pie. It sounds more like a Shel Silverstein poem than something you eat, but there you have it. Suitcase pie is a savory jelly roll, a butter and lard-based crust stuffed with minced pork, raisins, capers, and hardboiled eggs – a filling not-too distantly related to empanadas of various Latin American countries.

Curious about other meanings of maleta, I went to my trusty diccionario de la lengua española (the Spanish version of the OED) and among the definitions I found were: backpack (in Cuba), a hunchback (also in Cuba), not having a clear sense of what one is doing (in Argentina and Uruguay), a person’s back (in Peru), sickness, person who performs a certain task with ineptitude, an untalented bullfighter, an evil person (in Guatemala), to be in a foul mood (in Chile).

I think you’ll agree with me that none of these make any sense, so we’ll stick to the Nica nonsense and keep referring to it as suitcase pie. Here are my two cents about it: Maybe since it’s a neat little package people used to put it in their suitcases when they traveled.

Aside from wondering where its name originates, I wanted to make pastel de maleta because I haven’t eaten it in at least twenty years, but the memory of it lingers. I have some several-times-removed aunts that own a bakery in Granada, the town my family is from, called El Condor. It is from this well-respected institution that the pastel I remember is from. I lust after their recipe, but it’s one of those top-secret, classified ones, and I may never come to possess it.

I had to make do with this version, which although didn’t attain Condoresque perfection, yielded very satisfactory results.

PASTEL DE MALETA
Adapted and translated from 50 años en la cocina by Angélica de Vivas

*(Please note that I have translated this verbatim and therefore may sound funny. I added notes in parentheses where I found necessary).

Crust:

2 C. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. granulated sugar
¼ C. butter (½ stick)
¼ C. lard
1 egg
Orange juice (to bind)

Combine and mix dry ingredients; incorporate the lard and butter, in the usual manner, till it’s divided into small particles; add the egg, mixing well; add orange juice as needed; extend dough on a floured surface, in a rectangular shape, ¼” – thick.*
(For those unused to “the usual manner”: whisk together the dry ingredients, then cut in cold butter and cold lard. You may use a pastry cutter or two knives for this purpose. Once the butter/flour/lard resembles small peas, add the egg and mix. Add the orange juice a teaspoon at a time to avoid over-moistening the dough. I would suggest rolling the dough into a ball, wrapping it plastic wrap, and allowing it to rest in the refrigerator about 30 minutes prior to rolling out).

Filling:

1 ½ lbs. pork butt
1 onion, in quarters
1 green bell pepper, in pieces
4 garlic cloves
salt + pepper
1/3 C. butter
1 large onion, minced
1 large red bell pepper, minced
3 eggs, hard-boiled and chopped
1/3 C. raisins
1/3 C. capers
2 TBSP. Worcestershire sauce
1 TBSP. granulated sugar
¼ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
salt, pepper, and chile to taste (I used sriracha in place of “chile”)

Boil the pork butt together with the 5 following ingredients (onion, green bell pepper, garlic cloves, salt & pepper); when it becomes soft, remove it and process it; strain and reserve the broth.



Melt the butter and fry in it the minced onion, the red bell pepper and the pork, for 5 minutes; add the remaining ingredients and mix well; add a bit of the reserved broth, if it’s drying out on you.


Spread the filling over the extended dough and roll it up like a “brazo gitano” (she means a jelly roll – we call a jelly roll a “gypsy arm.” Whoever came up with that one had quite the macabre imagination). Fold the ends inwards and seal them with a little bit of water; place it on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and varnish it (the roll) with 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 tsp. water; bake it at 350˚F, for about 1 hour.




It may be eaten hot, or at room temperature. (For 12 people).
(I suggest eating it at room temperature – it tastes so much better.)

ROCK'N'RIESLING

It’s still cold around these parts, although yesterday I did see a few shy buds on a scrawny tree; a glimmer of hope that spring may actually arrive in the next few weeks. The weather being what it is, stewed and braised dishes are still acceptable, in my opinion. I made beer stew a few days ago and last night I gave coq au Riesling – or a version of it – a go. I’ve taken quite a liking to Riesling, and if it can be cooked up, all the better. The resulting dish was delightful and although stews and their immediate family conjure up drifts of snow and cozy fireplaces, the leeks and white sauce put a spring in this dish’s step.

In French Regional Cooking Anne Willan takes a whole chicken and cuts it up into eight pieces, browns them, flambés with a bit of cognac, adds Riesling, and cooks. Cream and an egg yolk (for thickening) are added to the pot at the end to make a sauce, and mushrooms are the only vegetable present in the recipe.
Gourmet published a chicken in Riesling recipe in March of this year and their version includes leeks, carrots, and potatoes. I opted for this garniture and added peas as well; perhaps not entirely traditional, but so finger lickin’ good that The Mister and I wound up using spoons to avoid wasting even a single drop of the sauce. It was so good it should be served as soup!


As usual, there were leftovers (if you’re planning on eating leftovers, by the by, forego finishing sauces with an egg yolk, because when you reheat and bring up to a boil, the egg will curdle and you’ll have something more akin to egg drop soup than satiny sauce) and I had a genius idea: chicken pot pie! I would shred the leftover chicken, mix it with the vegetables and sauce, cover it with a crust and bake.

I was giving myself a mental high five for being so resourceful until I started rolling out the dough. What a mess. I had a bag of organic whole grain pastry flour and thought, hey, now would be the ideal occasion for you to test it. I’ve only ever worked with all-purpose, whole wheat, and cake flour, but the bag said that this flour was specifically for pastry, that it would be “perfect for flaky and delicate pastries and cakes,” so there was no reason for me to be apprehensive about using it.

I made the dough in the usual manner for a 9" mold – 200 g. flour, 100 g. butter, 2 egg, and a few teaspoons of water. I wrapped it up, let it rest in the fridge, and then took out the rolling pin. That’s when disaster struck. The dough was cracking and refused to extend in that lovely, smooth way that I’m accustomed to. I wound up scraping it off the counter with a spatula and cobbling it back together on top of the chicken filling. I was angry and ashamed. I’ve made dozens of pie crusts and none of them have ever been this unfit to be seen. Into the oven the pie went anyway.

Things are not looking good.

About a half hour later Frankenpie was ready.

And what a sorry sight he was.

Regardless, I served him up and was, surprisingly, very pleased. This organic, whole grain flour yielded a crust that crumbled like no ordinary flour. Raw, the flour looks a lot like sand, and in pastry form those little grains shatter and crunch gloriously. The whole grain gave it a deeply satisfying, robust, nutty flavor. I guess I’ll make more crusts with this four (Arrowhead Mills) but will stick with the recipe on the back of the bag, which instructs the baker to press the dough right into the pan rather than rolling it out.

Whole grain pastry flour vs bleached all-purpose.