Author: Howard Dinin

Home fries With a Side of Steak and Eggs

Breakfast with steak eggs and home fries
Home fries with sides

There’s nothing harder to cook well than comfort food. And no more difficult way to do it than home cooking. The emphasis is on the qualifier, “well,” as in everything in life. Nevertheless, it’s inherent in the idea of comfort food that execution is not paramount. Indeed, as most comforts reside in that Proustian reflex that is triggered by the first mouthful of whatever (usually) childhood favorite that even approximates the product of the exertions of one’s favorite cook—usually a parent or older relative—during some critical period in one’s upbringing, the chronological limits of which are no doubt to be determined at some future date by a credentialed culinary or food studies specialist with the usual two or three degrees after his or her name—a discipline that didn’t exist as few as 25 years ago, but is a serious thing, so stop giggling. It is immaterial the essential, dare I call it the absolute?, quality of the dish as “cuisine,” bearing all the weight and pretense and pomp of that term. And there’s the problem for me.

I at least make a big show of brooking no compromise, even in the homeliest and simplest of dishes. In practice, of course, what it boils down to is that the real mother of invention is compromise. I say all this just to set the stage for what’s coming. Trust that I know the horror of eating those “mashed potatoes to die for” that “we always had on the holidays” and that actually taste like papier maché that has been oversalted and made from newsprint from which the ink has not been removed, and leaves a faint aftertaste of margarine and milk less than a day from going bad, and yet I acknowledge the perfect seriousness with which we must always regard comfort food, because such is its status in the enchanted mind of everyone you know. Everyone.

I recognize what comfort food is. I recognize the aura of sanctity it bears in the minds of virtually everyone who is free to decide what they eat, when they eat it, and where and how—in effect, every able-bodied adult capable of mashing hard-cooked eggs, along with the most haphazardly minced scallions or chives (likely wilted) and a large dollop of Cain’s or Hellman’s or, even better, cheap store-brand mayonnaise. Add a secret ingredient or two—ah, but, forget it… there are no secrets to be revealed here, there are no Dinin secrets, not about egg salad [disclosure: I have no heirloom recipe, designated, of course, as “the best in the world” handed down by my bubbe, the last of my two forebears of that sex having died two or three years before I was born]—and do not stand between the result and the person, likely in some straitened state of emotional disequilibrium, suffering the neeed for a fix of comfort of the consumable variety, and of course, the absolutely fundamental condition of being hungry, at least as hungry “as the wolf felt.” Between two slices of very fresh sourdough bread.

But, for all that, I honor and respect the mythic status of such a dish in the mind of he or she who craves it, like a former lover who suddenly pops into your head when you’re having intractable problems with the current model, or the urgent need for your favorite alcohol when suddenly it’s the moment you realize everything has turned to shit on a critical project for work and you’ll have to start all over from scratch.

Comfort food takes all the edge off when the stakes are high—or has all the calming of a sedative when you’re too keyed up to relax and too exhausted to think straight. So, of course, it doesn’t matter if it’s made with the platonic compulsion of Escoffier or the scientific precision of Charlie Trotter. Given. It can be made by just as mediocre a cook as your mother in actuality was, and to you it will taste just delicious, and fill your brain with a flood of endorphins.

Nevertheless, I say, why settle for third best when there’s absolutely nothing about the homeliest of foods that demands any less than to reach for excellence?

A lot rides on the skill of the home cook to bring it home with dishes as important as those that comprise the vast menu of comfort foods. Likely few of these soul-satisfying dishes has universal appeal. One man’s mac ‘n’ cheese may leave another woman feeling queasy. There’s no predicting any one person’s favorites.

However, I’d venture to say that no meal provides the potentialities for comfort as well as breakfast—the matutinal repast long positioned, and long derided, as the most important of the day. I won’t enter that debate, not here. And I won’t predict the degree of proximity to unanimity on which daily meal truly fits that bill, but I do know that I love my breakfast. And I know very few people who skip it, however meager. Perhaps there aren’t enough of those types happy with a cup a’ joe and a pop tart in my life, but for that I merely count myself lucky.

I could get easily sidetracked on the vast subject of just exactly which baked goods as well as the breadth of choices from which I have been fortunate to be able to choose satisfy my longing for a good first meal of the day, before venturing to my encounter with the rest of it, and all that it will bring. But I won’t. Not now. Baked goods deserve a whole series of posts and having built the place to put them, I’ll just say, they will come.

Rather I come today to write of the potato, that estimable, yet at the same time lowly if venerated, tuber. And to address particularly the dish that is its quintessential manifestation at the morning meal. I’d even dare to say, to embellish that superlative, that the home fried potato is singularly appropriate upon which to dine only at breakfast. Consider all the cafes, diners and bistros that offer breakfast, not to mention lunch and dinner. It is only on the breakfast menu, including that which is “served all day”—leaving aside the ontological perplexities of such a concept—that one discovers the choice of home fries, assuming they are offered at all. More pointedly, there is the question of what exactly is on offer when the preparation in question is designated with that soubriquet. Before quitting this paragraph I’ll merely note that Barbara Haber, deep in the bowels of her canonical From Hardtack to Home Fries: An Uncommon History of American Cooks and Meals, notes casually, almost en passant, having just described one revered African-American woman cook’s time-honored Christmas breakfast, “‘thin-sliced skillet-fried white potatoes,’ more commonly known as home fries, a comforting dish that can turn up at any meal.”Haber, Barbara (2010-05-08). From Hardtack to Homefries: An Uncommon History of American Cooks and Meals (p. 187). Free Press. Kindle Edition. But who are you going to believe, a world-famous librarian and curator of the world’s most comprehensive collection of cookbooks, or me? I get around this conundrum by merely pointing out that it’s an age-old tradition, that of “breakfast for dinner” or any time. And what makes breakfast but home fries?

I put it to you that the home fry is a particular concoction, not to be confused with other versions of the fried potato, too often erroneously designated as such when, in truth, what is delivered to your place is some perhaps grand, perhaps desultory dish more precisely designated as hashed potatoes, or hash browns, or grilled (or baked or roasted, but not all the oils of Araby will make a potato stuck in the oven a fried potato, never mind a home fried potato). You might even be served, in the right venue, at the right moment, and likely the right locality, potatoes dauphinoise—and who does not love them for what they are?—but they would not be home fries. You will most likely be served what are called “home fries” by the New York Times current poobah of food (whose claim to fame used to be that he had written a cookbook unselfconsciously entitled How To Cook Everything, while at the same time accepting the crafty nom de cooktop, belying the obvious intent of this self-coronation, of “The Minimalist”). I mean Mark Bittman who, since he courageously and largely for reasons of health (the best reasons in the world) shed significant excess personal avoirdupois and almost, seemingly simultaneously, began reading, apparently for the first time, discovering a world beyond the kitchen, the editorial pages of his employer for so many years, has re-branded himself as a foodie/advocate, and he writes eloquent, reasoned, and deceptively impassioned pleas about how the entire planet or the entirety of mankind (take your pick) should eat sensibly, cost be damned, or we are all doomed.

What Mr. Bittman thinks are home fries are, indeed, telling from the exertions and offerings of most home-style restaurants, diners, and “breakfast all day” eateries, small chunks, cubes and wedges, approximately three-quarters of an inch in any dimension, of red-skinned potatoes, washed, but not skinned (and readily supplied as such, no doubt, by the likes of the empire of food supplies to the commercial food industry, Sysco, in mammoth polyethylene bags, ready to be poured in the desired quantity onto a well-oiled or greased griddle) to be cooked in fat, preferably vegetable oil, on all sides until browned, and then cooked a little further to add the requisite all-American crispiness. Well, I say, “bushwah.” I say, the lazy man’s fried potato, and lacking in some essential qualities for a home fry (or any other fry, most notably a proper pomme frite or what we call in the U.S. a french fry—but once again, what constitutes “proper,” although alluded to further along, is, in the case of the pomme frite, a rather complex subject and tricky undertaking in execution, and so will be taken up in some future post. The chief virtue of the Bittman home fry is that it can sit in the pan, or even out of it, until the diners are ready to consume them so the cook can readily re-heat them, and re-heat them, and re-heat them, again and again and again, without much damage to the consistency with any modicum of attentiveness–until they become rather limp, characterless shadows of their already unremarkable selves.

The home fry as I propose it to you can be, indeed is, a course in itself, and yet is served, likely, best as accompaniment to other components of the meal. In our house, we almost invariably have home fries at breakfast, and, given the predilections of the participants, this usually means eggs, usually scrambled, soft, but dry, and a breakfast meat, from sausage to bacon to steak, if one of us (the meat eater) is feeling particularly atavistic, or hungry to the point of ravenous. The eggs are not a big deal, and even a steak (always grass fed, and usually one of only four or five cuts: strip, filet, hanger, flank, or skirt) requires only to be watched closely as it sears on both sides in a cast iron pan. The steak may be finished entirely on the stovetop, or in a very hot oven, after being seared for a minute or two on each side in the pan before inserting the meat and its cooking vessel directly into the pre-heated oven.

Here’s what’s needed for the home fries.

Howard’s Home Fries

The best potato for this is, in fact, the Russet, of which there are small number of usually available permutations. Provenance is of little regard, Maine or Idaho (or even Florida or California). Just make sure it’s fresh, doesn’t show a clear and unambiguous green hue showing through the skin, has no burgeoning shoots or root buds growing from where the otherwise inconspicuous “eyes” used to be, bears no bruises or dark spots, and shows only the slightest, if any, marks of the spade (deep nicks, divots, gouges, and scars).

Why is the Russet best? Because it is of the mealy (so-called) variety, as opposed to the waxy (which most red and gold skinned potatoes are). Mealy potatoes are called that because the significantly higher starch content renders them of a particular texture when cooked, giving them a “mealy” quality in the mouth. What all this means is that the potato, in fact, is capable of a significantly higher uptake of moisture, in the form of added liquids, such as the various fluids and semi-fluids and fats added to baked or boiled Russet potatoes to make mashed potatoes, a dish for which the species is optimal.

What happens scientifically when the Russet is cooked is this, according to Professor Diane McComber (Iowa State University, retired;J. Agric. Food Chem. 1994, 42: 2433- 2439) “Russet Burbank potatoes were observed to absorb more moisture while less of the moisture in the lower-starch waxy potatoes was absorbed by the swollen starch granules leaving more free moisture. This explains why mealy potatoes are perceived as dry while waxy potatoes are characterized as moist.” The scientific underpinnings of my preference for Russets are amplified by the remarks of Mr. Harold McGee, everyone’s favorite kitchen scientist.

Mealy types (russets, blue and purple varieties, Russian and banana fingerlings) concentrate more dry starch in their cells, so they’re denser than waxy types. When cooked, the cells tend to swell and separate from each other, producing a fine, dry, fluffy texture that works well in fried potatoes and in baked and mashed potatoes, which are moistened with butter or cream. In waxy types (true new potatoes and common U.S. red- and white-skinned varieties), neighboring cells cohere even when cooked, which gives them a solid, dense, moist texture, and them together in intact pieces for gratins, potato cakes, and salads. [McGee, H. (2004). On food and cooking : the science and lore of the kitchen. New York, Scribner. pp.302-303]

The result of these responses is that, via a three-step cooking process, the Russet potato is transformed into the optimal manifestation of the home fried potato as sought, I would venture universally, as a quintessential. This recipe produces a result that has integrity, solidity, and an ensemble of mouth feel experiences, accompanied by complementary layers of flavor that is almost musical, if of a particular American genre of interwoven textures and harmonies. And here’s where the “proper” alluded to above comes in, as the same generic combination of textures—crisp on the outside, soft and tender on the inside—applies to the quintessential pommes frites.

Ingredients

(for 2 servings)

  • 1 large (approximately 1/2 pound) Russet Potato, skin intact, thoroughly rinsed and brushed lightly with a vegetable brush
  • 1 Tablespoon of 100% organic virgin coconut oil; you may substitute butter in the same amount, but if you’re trying to avoid saturated fats, I don’t see the point, unless you have a flavor preference; coconut oil and butter have the same melting and flash points, so the difference is in the flavor, with the coconut oil having the edge of neutrality—but choose your favorite; although highly saturated in fats, coconut oil and butter allegedly each have other components that makes eating them in moderation possibly even salutary
  • 1 Tablespoon of 100% organic canola (or other high flash point vegetable) oil
  • 1/2 small to medium yellow onion
  • coarsely ground black pepper to taste (I like Tellicherry)
  • a pinch of Celtic sea salt, fine ground (a pinch is generally understood to be 1/16 to 1/8 of a teaspoon; it is the amount you can hold comfortably between the tips of your index finger and thumb)
  • 1 stiff-bladed (with an offset) turner, at least six inches long
  • 1 11-12 inch seasoned cast iron skillet
  • 1 Adjustable vegetable mandoline-style slicer (I like the French-made Bron™, worth every penny as it will last forever)
  • 1 Knife-resistant Kevlar™ cutting glove, to fit (this allows you to hold what you’re cutting in your fingers, instead of using clumsy and hard-to-control food safety carriages, all without cutting your personal flesh)
  • 1 small or medium pair of chef’s stainless steel spring-loaded tongs
  • 1 large pan lid or cover sufficient to cover the pan and contents without allowing steam to escape
mandoline, glove and cutting board
Bron™ mandoline and Kevlar™ cutting glove, and a cutting board

With a very sharp bladed 8″ to 10″ chef’s knife cut the potato evenly in half lengthwise. Set aside.

Set up the mandoline slicer over a large wooden chopping board, to catch the slices. Adjust the straight blade of the mandoline to produce slices approximately 1/8-inch (3+ mm) in thickness; slight deviations in measurement are not critical.

First slice the half onion into slices, holding the onion in your gloved hand as you pass it through the cutting edge. Slice the entire onion.

Now (and this will go much more smoothly and rapidly than the onion, so be extra careful, even using the glove), slice one half of the potato entirely, and then the other half.

You will end up with a pile of potato slices covering a smaller pile of onion slices. Make sure any strays have been placed back on the board.

Trader_Joe_96070-organic-virgin-coconut-oil.pngOver a medium burner setting on the stovetop, heat the cast-iron skillet, and right after turning on the burner, drop the coconut oil into the pan, immediately followed with the tablespoon of vegetable oil. Swirl them both around in the pan once the coconut oil liquefies.

When the surface of the oil begins to shimmer, but not smoke, add all the onion and potato slices at once (I usually just slide them off the cutting board into the pan; but whatever method satisfies your own esthetic for operational detail, go for it). Immediately sprinkle the contents of the pan with the pinch of salt and a turn or two (or three) of the pepper mill set to coarse. Using the tongs, mix up the slices evenly, potatoes and onions, well in the pan, and let them sit in the heat to get an initial sear on some of the potato slices.

potatoes and onions in the pan
Potatoes and onions in the pan, tossed and turned for even coating.

When the ingredients have begun to sear, mix them again with the tongs, also turning them, in sections, so all surfaces are coated in oil and some optimal number of slices get exposed to the cooking surface. Sear some more, very lightly.

The onions and potatoes should only be getting very lightly browned. Don’t allow anything to burn, and, using the turner, make sure no ingredients, but especially the potato slices, stick to the bottom of the pan.

After about seven or eight minutes of cooking and turning, begin to gather the slices into a low mound toward the center of the pan. Cover the pan fairly tightly, so no steam escapes. The cover should not be touching any of the ingredients. Lower the heat of the burner to low, or even very low. Using a cast-iron skillet means there will be a signicant amount of retained heat, which will continue to cook the potatoes and onions until the temperature of everything drops.

Low mound of potatoes and onions
Potatoes and onions lightly seared and gathered in a low mound just prior to covering and lowering the heat.

Covering the pan will ensure, among other things, that the moisture escaping from the onions and potatoes will be trapped and will drip off the lid onto the ingredients for a braising effect. Trapping the moisture will also ensure that the starch granules of the potato will be absorbing it, becoming engorged and softening—essentially the body of the potatoes will cook at the temperature of the water vapor, just about that of steam, and so they will cook gently, making them very tender. The surfaces of the potatoes touching the pan surfaces will also begin to brown nicely, but not too much as a result of lowering the cooktop heat.

From time to time, for a period of at least another ten minutes, lift the lid to allow any trapped water to flow back into the pan, and to ensure, inspecting by eye, that nothing is getting overly browned or even blackened—the temperature should be low enough so as to preclude the possibility, but turning everything every so often, will make the cooking more even throughout and help avoid the possibility of over-browning too many surfaces.

The next stage of cooking, the third one actually, is ready to commence when the slices of potato noticeably adhere to one another, as a result of the engorged starch granules acting as a kind of glue. Using the turner, assemble the ingredients into a round cake in the middle of the pan, about eight inches in diameter. Press this cake flat gently. It should be even more obvious that the slices of potato are adhering to one another. As you begin to gather the slices into this cake, turn up the heat under the pan to slightly more than medium low.

While this potato “cake” is cooking, you may attend to other components of the meal (scrambling eggs, toasting bread, etc.). Watch the cake in the pan, and be especially mindful of signs of burning. After about five or six minutes after having removed the cover from the pan—and all this while you may, and should, be adjusting the cake, to keep it round, and to make sure “stray” slices are adhering to the main body of it—try turning the entire cake at once to cook it on its other side. In a perfect world, which this is not, there will be no strays or bits falling off, but there is no harm if they do. Simply scrape them onto the cake, onto the sides and the top, and press, so the “glue” of the potato starch makes them adhere. The surface that was on the bottom should be a deep golden brown, with some lighter and darker spots.

Browned potatoes and onions
Home fries almost finished. Seared and browned on one side and turned. The whole mound has become a cake. In another 4 to 5 minutes, it will be done.

Allow to cook for another four or five minutes. The idea is to form a crust, which will provide that mouth-satisfying crispiness or crunch, to blend with each mouthful of the soft, “mealy” interior. The home fry should have some of the texture or mouth feel of a dryer version of mashed potatoes (without all the added calories of butter or cream that are usually added—there are enough fat calories in the oils used to fry the potatoes for this dish). Try turning the cake again. It should hold its integrity and remain whole on the turner this time, turning like a big fat pancake. If both sides are fairly well browned, the heat can be turned to very low, or even off, as the retained heat of the pan will keep the home fries at the right temperature for serving. As you get closer to bringing all the dishes to the table, turn off the heat altogether for sure. There is no reason to cover the pan, as doing so raises the risk of making the home fries, especially their outer “crust” a little soggier than most people prefer.

One potato, as in this recipe, will provide two servings to be divided as you like (slicing the home fries, as a potato cake, down the middle is the simplest and most equitable way of creating the portions). Any leftover home fries (a most uncommon occurrence) can be reheated once, successfully, especially in a hot oven or on the stove top, just long enough to heat it through, and resurrect some of the original crispiness of the surface.

When served and eaten, it really shouldn’t need any corrective seasoning, unless the individual diner’s preference calls for it.

(Very) Short Notice to Subscribers

I have changed the settings for feed notices you receive by email if you are a subscriber. You will no longer receive the full post… You will get a handy 50-word abstract/extract, which I hope will be sufficient to whet your appetite.

Sorry for the initial feed notice that included the whole megillah.

The Short Pour

Schilling Littleton short pour porter DSC0185

We’re in the wilds of Grafton County, which occupies the left-hand side of the mid-section of New Hampshire. As the state tapers severely north of us, only one county separates us from Canada. But Grafton County itself borders entirely on the state of Vermont. In our neck of the woods, the natural division between us is more or less the Connecticut River, traversed by innumerable bridges along its length. The points of juncture charmingly and invariably occur between what are essentially a pair of otherwise nondescript towns—twins divided by the umbilicus of the river. I mean no disrespect by this. They are for the most part simply very small towns populated mainly by the same kind of people who founded them and have always lived there, small landholders, essentially farmers, workers, and small business owners.

The area is neither rich nor poor. Nevertheless there is an air of not so much scraping by, as sustaining one’s place on the earth, not so much struggle as constant labor. Many of the towns have remnants of commercial enterprise to provide and maintain the daily needs of the populace. In our town, in a disconnected string of buildings along the main drag, some with dwellings attached, there’s a discount gasoline station, a combination general store and gasoline station, a dollar store, several produce stands that see business only in the growing season, a John Deere dealership with ranks of tractors of various sizes, but mostly of a diminutive if hefty size, small, yet powerful, dedicated to mowing, a lumber yard, a gun store, an ice cream stand and dairy store owned by the dairy that supplies its stock, a United States post office, a second-hand store. Farther out of town is an automobile repair shop, actually of some repute for the quality of their work. And beyond the stores in the other direction, headed north is a complex of buildings belonging to the administrative affairs of the state, including a courthouse and a small prison facility, as the town is the county seat. As you drive by on warm days, residents of the state assisted care and nursing facilities within the complex sit in their wheel chairs and on benches and watch as the intermittent somehow desultory two-lane traffic goes by in each direction. Prisoners in orange jump suits tend to vegetable beds across the road that supply the small farm stand, built of raw pine, that sees business—sometimes quite a brisk business—during the summer months.

Strung along the highway, in our town and beyond in neighboring villages and hamlets are farms, a number of huge stands of corn meant for silage, but mainly dairy farms, which also sell their meat, modestly promoted on fading signs as honest organic, grass fed beef (along with the occasional pork and lamb) that you can buy year round. Somewhere or other nearby is the abattoir of modest proportions patronized by most of these farmers, who, after the butchery is done, have the usual cuts, as well as ground portions flash frozen, in which condition they sit in solid icy splendor in lockers or freezers. It’s the frozen meat one purchases out of road-side stands and shacks, winter or summer, just off the road on which each farm sits. It is good, honest tasty meat.

The small industry of restaurants that has grown up south of us, mainly catering to the better-heeled natives and winter and summer birds with second homes, that live closer to Hanover, still in Grafton County, yet the southern-most town but one, as much as 40 miles away on the main road that passes through our town as well. Indeed, the road, US 10, hewing to the contours of the river, is known as the Dartmouth College Highway, lest anyone forget the most renowned enterprise in this otherwise fairly remote part of the middle of of one of the three northernmost of the states. Both CNN and Money Magazine, each diligent to the needs and predilections of the still great upper middle class of the nation, deemed Hanover the sixth best place to live in America in 2011. The folks thereabouts can afford the delightful preparations the quiet, unpretentious restaurants, manned by talented chefs, trained in the fleshpots of the big city, and now seeking the quieter pleasures of a still truly rural vanishing bit of U.S. civilization, still accurately and appropriately deemed bucolic.

Where well-heeled residents of the larger cities of New England or the Mid-Atlantic will think nothing of a daring half-hour jaunt along the clogged, haplessly designated “expressways” that take them downtown for a praiseworthy meal, equally well fed patrons take a journey hereabouts that is of equal duration, at worst, for a meal equally good, here in the sticks. Invariably, whatever potentiality there is for invidious comparisons, it is to the disadvantage of the urban experience. Here, there is barely any traffic. What there is, keeps moving along. And the scenery is marvelous, which is to say, there is scenery, as opposed to views of the current architectural modes of the urban milieu.

Heading north from our town for recreation and sustenance produces a somewhat different result, though the rewards and attractions have been steadily improving of late, having degraded for awhile long since, that is, since well before the economic downturn of 2007. Travel Route 10, which eventually joins Route 302 that slowly meanders eastward toward the White Mountains National Park, and it will take you ultimately to towns that are a bit larger, more industrious, more visibly mercantile, more seemingly prosperous. The largest of these, and the most northerly and last of the towns in Grafton County is Littleton, whose founding in the 18th century and history are connected with that of Newburyport, Massachusetts, and which is notable, among a handful of reasons, for its grist mill, built on the banks of the Amonoosuc River, still running through the main village, in 1798. The mill, fallen into disuse long ago, has been restored to its original appearance. Milled product, proudly offered as all natural, with no preservatives, pesticides or insecticides, is still sold, through a Web-only store, and is ground virtually on a per order basis. The mill website lists local restaurants from Littleton to Franconia to Manchester that use their corn, whole wheat and buckwheat meal, mainly for whole grain pancakes.

The mill had a retail store at its original location, but lost their lease for unexplained, though observing the current uses of the same space are easily inferred, reasons.

Given that the space is now occupied by a spiffy new brew pub, constantly being expanded, and with in-house vats, tanks, pumps and the like, one can guess at the financial exigencies that put the property in the hands of an energetic crew of beer lovers and entrepreneurs. They have opened a bar and restaurant under the same brand as the house brews, which they call Schilling. The provenance of the name is unclear, especially as the preponderance of the executive staff, from the Chairman to the CEO, the CFO, as well as several other officers, share the family name of Cozzens. Cozzens or not, the principals and managers all appear to be men. Half of them are bearded.

Patrons are greeted jovially. Originally, starting almost two years ago, the bar and taproom were open for lunch and dinner, serving their small batch (five barrels at a time) brews in various permutations, as well as pizzas from the prominently featured, obviously hand-built brick oven, fired by wood, for pizzas to order, as well as platters of charcuterie, cheese, and various de rigeur Middle Eastern ground legume spreads and dips—hummus and the like.

Since those ambitious beginnings, Schilling seems to have settled into a different routine, opening in mid-afternoon for the first of the week and opening for lunch only on Fridays and the weekend. Originally the beers, ales, and other concoctions were served on premises. They have just begun a program of supplying “select craft beer retailers” in “limited quantities.”

The brews are generally quite good, and it appears that at any one time they offer from ten to a dozen choices, in varying degrees of abv (alcohol by volume). At the moment, the most robust is a Belgian style dark strong brew they call “Thaddeus.” As seems to be the style among craft brewers, all variants have names, unique to the product. Thaddeus is 8.3% abv, and you are advised to “let it warm in your hands to taste its full complexity.” I wouldn’t know. There is also the usual kind of mix of ales, IPAs, Hefeweizen, and lagers. They seem to make an earnest and sincere intent to satisfy all palates.

We had lunch there yesterday. I rarely drink beers and ales, etc., or any yeast-laden beverages as any significant, that is, truly satisfying quantity, would only aggravate an otherwise benign and dormant medical ailment I otherwise manage to keep under control. I don’t particularly like the taste of hops either, so even when I was free to drink as I chose in any reasonable volume, I didn’t deign to drink the brew of choice, it seems, nationally, the ubiquitous IPA. My taste runs to brews that put more emphasis on the malt part of the formula and I do have a preference for darker brews, though porter is the optimum, and I shy away from stout, if not especially disdaining the touchstone of serious imbibers, Guinness Stout. My wife drinks no beer at all, and is no guide or source of a variant point of view.

Schilling logo separate 122px We discovered Schilling early, well before the now universal application of its rather slick logo, which seems to be some abstracted representation of a sheaved grass, like barley, though it has been rendered into a state of such deep genericism, it’s hard to say what the deeper branding intent was, except to look very slick. Somehow vaguely heraldic, somehow vaguely from the Bauhaus school of typography and iconography that calls for spare minimalist strokes, reminiscent of any number of ‘grotesk’ styled fonts. It’s an odd thing to do, to this antique former ad man, for a craft brewery hidden away in a working class town, 90 minutes from the Canadian frontier, with a population of 6,000 all told spread over 54 square miles. The owners of Schilling are proud of their Littleton roots, and the website, equally as slick as the logo, gives an account written with an almost patriotic fervor about Littleton as, essentially, what the town apparently calls itself, “the main street of the mountains.” Though one must hasten to add, that in Littleton you are not quite in the mountains, not by several thousand feet of elevation.

We’ve liked their way with pizza from the start, though the careful and I’m tempted to say almost meditative approach (and pace) they take to the fulfillment of orders can only heighten one’s anticipation, as well as one’s appetite, and perhaps there is a slightly more favorable impression of the flavor and composition. But, all in all, sarcasm aside, it’s good fresh pizza, made by hand, and with the savory notes possibly only in a wood-burning oven. The ingredients are always as described and super fresh, and applied as toppings at appropriate stages of preparation, some before baking, some as the pie exits the oven.

As for what to quaff, I noticed immediately on the current list of brews a porter, which they call “Kamarade,” presumably as it is allegedly of a Baltic style. I will provide you with their description, which is accurate in the main, and not misleading.

[from the Schilling site] Kamarade (Baltic Porter, Nitro-Poured), 7.8% abv. Inspired by the brewing traditions of Scandinavia and Russia, where porters have a higher ABV than their English counterparts. Ours has a dose of chocolate rye and restrained hopping to produce a malt-centric, lingering finish.

One of the telling parts of the description, aside from the obviously elevated abv, is the specified nitro-poured. Not being familiar with the intricacies and science of brewing—remembering I’m not only a big beer drinker, but I am certainly no beer fanatic, the province of younger men, with bigger beards—I went searching for an adequate, sort of brief explanation of the science, and found the following on the chicagofoodies blog site. It seemed a pretty good take and described the experience I had at the drinking end:

[from the Chicago Foodies site; to explain “nitro pour”] “Beers on nitrogen pour aren’t all that common. Most beers on tap are pressurized by carbon dioxide, which forces the beer out of the keg and through a draft line. With nitrogen systems, a ratio of nitrogen and carbon dioxide around 75/25 is used to pressurize the beer. This requires special equipment that can withstand higher pressure (or just a bit of creative engineering with existing tap systems). When stouts were introduced in Britain, the only way to serve them was by pouring or pumping directly from a cask. Nitrogen pours recreate something of that original experience.

“The nitrogen pour does this in a few ways. Most notably, it creates a creamier mouthfeel to stouts and porters. Nitrogen bubbles are smaller than carbon dioxide bubbles, meaning beers don’t feel as carbonated when served on nitro. Nitrogen is also a large component in the air we breath, so the bubbles in the head don’t feel the need to escape into the air as quickly, producing a thicker head. It’s no surprise that the most common beer experienced on nitro pour is a Guinness.”

http://www.chicagofoodies.com/2012/02/whats-a-nitro-pour-or-why-cant-i-get-a-growler-of-frangelic-porter.html

This helped me understand, and validated, the experience I had with the “Kamarade,” which replicated what I recall of tastes of cask-aged and cask-poured brews in other brew pubs in my past. The net effect is that the carbonation is subdued, refined, civilized, and allows the tastes and flavors of the beverage to be experienced and differentiated without the confusion and distraction of more vigorous activity from larger bubbles of gas in much higher volume. For me, and probably in a very singular way, it’s what diminishes my appreciation for Guinness Stout, which clearly has a preponderance of admirers vs. the number of detractors willing to speak against it. In short, I’m a stout wuss, not able to appreciate the onslaught of powerful—to me, almost primeval—flavors and textures of this stalwart, thick in the mouth, and very flavor-forward beverage. I am supposing, in a very crude thought experiment, that with the kind of titillating and powerful carbonation of a Coca-Cola added to Guinness, the experience would be similar, without the sickening cloying aftertaste of that aggressive assault on the palate. Whatever. I’m content with porter, which stops somewhere short in my mind as a signifier of my manliness, about which I have no doubt, at least with respect to what I sit there, beardless, in the rough-hewn environs of an essentially backwoods tavern—21st century style—however sans the hirsute, plaid-clad, steel-toed boot style called for by the latter-day hipster.

And, to be sure as well as clear, I was very happy with the “Kamarade” on offer at Schilling, save for one thing. Speaking of short, that is, falling short, I had noticed that the current beer list was mainly offered in two serving sizes, not designated otherwise but as a lower-priced portion and a higher-priced, usually indicators of the size of the serving vessel. At the risk of being over-repetitive on a very small and wholly personal detail, as I am not a big beer drinker, I ordered, as I always do in these circumstances, literally a “small” portion, not knowing what else to call it. I am also not sufficiently a frequent imbiber in establishments offering craft brews, and am, hence, unfamiliar with the terms of art. I infer, in the spirit of the hollow marketing manipulations of the language, best embodied in the Italianate and ridiculous drink sizes memorialized by Starbucks where a “small” is transmuted linguistically into a “tall,” a “medium” into a “grande,” etc., a small glass of beer is a “short” pour, which adds a further even more deeply embedded crypto shaming inherent in taproom sensibility—isn’t there an apocryphal legend that in the more roughhouse atmosphere of certain taverns, at least for awhile in certain cultures and counties, that the sport of choice, once all participants, properly bearded, barrel-chested, and beer-bellied were sufficiently lubricated on the warm ale “in good nick” and direct from the cask, was “dwarf tossing?” Pardon the offensive-to-some terminology, but that’s what it was called.

In all events, to be accurate, it seems to me a “short” pour would go in the same glass as an implied “long” pour (though it’s never referred to in this way) only short of the mark as full. It should also be noted that, like the iconic Guinness Stout, the king of nitro-poured craft beers, especially of the dark-hued variety, with far greater barley and malted notes, the hallmark of porter or a stout is a very large head of foam, built up in layers as the expert tapster or barman or maid lets the glass sit under the tap, filling it in increments, in order to maximize its mainly gaseous lighter hued cap of light tan—contrasted handsomely and compellingly with the darker chocolate-hued liquid beneath—to build a foam barrier of optimal depth once a pour is complete. The sign of fullness of the vessel occurs when the foam reaches the top rim of the glass, it no longer subsides.

Naturally, a short pour in any commercial establishment bent on making a profit from the complex, labor-intensive, and delicate ministrations required to produce a fit product for consumption is served in a glass commensurate with the measure they have deemed fit to match the lower price of the smaller portion. As I indicated, all that were shown were two prices. In the case of “Kamarade” these were $3.25 and $6.50. The lower price seemed a fair amount to extract from me, the light drinker, and sufficient to satisfy my taste, my thirst for what I must otherwise and in any event drink in moderation, and would be not the usual waste of money I manage to commit each time I drink in a bar, because, no matter what the usual portion (and it’s usually 12 or 16 ounces of a draft beverage) I never finish the glass. However this “small,” as I ordered it arrived, indeed, in a lilliputian bit of glassware, almost comical in its diminished proportions, and pretty much the size of a glass I have been offered in other establishments when a “taste” (that is a swallow or two) was offered on a complimentary basis, in order to measure the brew against my preferred palate satisfactions. Moreover, there was the exaggerated head, which took up perhaps an inch, perhaps closer to 3/4 of an inch, in a glass that could not measure more than four or four and-a-half inches in total height.

In my astonishment, I remarked to my wife, that I imagined the glass held, at best, four ounces of any liquid. She disagreed but not by much, but there was no scientific way to make even a rough measure to hand so that part of the conversation was dropped, especially as it was irrelevant. I could not see even this generous whistle-wetter as a sufficient quantity to accompany as much of my pizza (to which I will allude, briefly, in a moment) as I was likely to care to consume, that is, a half of it. When the staff member returned, I pointed out that I had not known what to expect in liquid volume as to the size I would be offered, and that I was sure I would want more, and she inquired, blandly, with no sign of being surprised or non-plussed, and with no indication that she saw her role as anything other than in the capacity of server, as opposed, say, to enlightener of the taproom of craft brewers customers still in the dark as to the arcana of their craft and trade. So, “Do you want another,” she asked, “a short pour again [I had been very careful not to allude, again, to anything as “small”], or a full pour?” I allowed that another short one would be sufficient and that was what was delivered. As i never saw the size of the glass used for a “full” pour, I cannot say that the amount I paid for two shorts, $6.50, though the mathematical equivalent of the charge for a single full glass, represented equal value.

Suffice it to say, and I will say it, for added dramatic effect, in a single sentence, which will constitute this entire paragraph, that I was flabbergasted, and remain so, and discovered I had nothing else to think, never mind to say, on the subject.

The pizza I ordered was given the name “Salsiccia,” referring to the slices of Italian sausage that adorned the top in a random pattern, accompanied by carmelized onions, a very thin film of fresh house-made tomato sauce, and copious amounts of mozzarella cheese. It was all very tasty, though the amount of cheese was considerably in excess of my preference, and that the pie was about 10″ in diameter, and I ate half as an adequate lunch.

There is no indication that there is a “short” order of pizza, should one want to exercise restraint on the food side of the bill of fare.

Having warned you, especially the ranks of my equally fastidious consumers of brew-pub food and drink, I would recommend Schilling, should you ever find yourself in Littleton, NH. Given the shortcomings of trying to bottle the more attractive qualities of a nitro-pour, I’d probably avoid the porters and stouts under the Schilling brand, should you stumble into one of that select list of retailers of their craft beers.

Real French Roast Chicken

Real French roast chicken
Roast chicken, prepared as described. Serving suggestion; results may vary [photo by M.Goldthwaite]

[Important message: This post is taken from the archives by the same author and blog meister, and appears in virtually the same form as posted on the date noted in 2014 on a different blog he maintains on subjects far more catholic in their variety and focus. Since posting this recipe, meant to be canonical in its own way, repeatedly tested and vetted, I have made one change in kitchen protocols—as applied to all practices for any recipe, anywhere, whatever the provenance of the ingredients, and especially as applied to poultry.

In short, contrary to the directions below about washing the chicken and drying it, prior to preparing it for final insertion in a roasting pan and into the oven, please carefully not the following:

Because of the extreme risk of cross-contamination, even in a home kitchen, from poultry to other foods, cooking surfaces, and cooking utensils and prep areas—thereby significantly increasing the risk of infecting your guests and loved ones with serious illness, but in particular those caused by salmonella and campylobacter, DO NOT WASH the chicken, or any other poultry. Aside from the general rule of handling it carefully, washing all cooking tools, utensils and surfaces touched by the poultry, including your hands, you should make it a habit to wash your hands frequently when handling poultry. I will post a list of more comprehensive tips, plus a list of official and quasi-official links to government Web pages devoted to the subject, from the governments of the U.S.A., the U.K. and New Zealand in the very near future.

I have also added a note into this recipe, below, with alternative directions on handling and preparing the chicken for the oven.]

There are two things said about roast chicken with regard to the French. One, this is one of those quintessential dishes of French cuisine. No one in France, least of all a professional cook, can call him or herself that without being able to make a perfect roast chicken, and in less than 90 minutes. I said, “perfect” and I said, 90 minutes.

Second, there is sometimes only one test of the chops of a cook, in France, or anywhere else (unless it’s certain parts of China, where I believe they have their own magic ways with chicken), and that is, to roast a perfect chicken.

Here’s how it’s done. At least here’s how I do it. Works every time. I’ve done it dozens and dozens of times. The stove is immaterial, as long as it works, and it can reach at least 450 degrees fahrenheit. Forget convection. Forget broilers. Forget any prep, except a sink big enough to rinse the chicken with clean cold water.

You need:

1 3-4 pound chicken, preferably free-range, with no additives (no hormones, no drugs), but fresh air, sunshine, and whatever chickens naturally eat, which includes insects, grubs, and their larvae. Don’t use a smaller chicken or a larger one.

I currently get my chickens from Lancaster County farmers, who raise them entirely naturally and slaughter them humanely and get them to market very quickly after they’ve been knackered.

2-3 Tablespoons of vegetable oil. You can use EVOO, but what a waste. Use canola, or even better grape seed, oil, either of which add no flavors of their own to adulterate the natural fats of the chicken that will render out as it cooks.

Semi-coarse sea salt (Celtic salt from France is best; really, no kidding). Get the unadulterated kind, with no additives.

A good adjustable pepper grinder, set to semi-coarse, and filled with a good kind of peppercorn. You can never go wrong with Tellicherry. And it’s food, for God’s sake, and you don’t use much, so spend a little money on it.

2 Cups of chicken or vegetable broth. Use any of the really healthy brands from, say, Whole Foods Market (their own brand is cheapest). Best to use low-sodium or no sodium versions, but no really big deal if you don’t. If you buy a brand that says it’s “organic,” you’ll be safe. Rachel Ray also markets broths that are amazingly good, and as far as I can tell, not hazardous to your health. Who knew? I can’t attest to the rest of the celebrity/tv chefs with their own brands. Avoid Swanson, Campbell, or any of those huge conglomerate vendors. They’re packaging chemicals in a can. In fact, don’t use it if it comes from a can. Look for those hermetically sealed boxes that hold about a liter of broth. Incidentally, “broth” or “stock” on the label makes no difference for our purposes.

A bulb baster

[optional] instant reading mini roasting thermometer (analog or digital… doesn’t matter); “roasting” means it has a probe that you can stick into roasting meat or fish

That’s it for ingredients.

Set a rack in the middle of the oven, with no racks above it. Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Even if you’re not certain it gets to that temperature, use that setting. You’ll be cooking by looking (and touching), plus, if you’re really a very careful person, using a small instant reading thermometer, so too much precision is not called for. If your oven can’t reach 450 degrees, no crime either, it will just take longer and won’t turn out quite the same way, in which case you can tell your guests or family it’s “nearly perfect” chicken. If your oven can’t reach 350 degrees (and you’re unaware of this obvious deficiency) you shouldn’t be cooking.

Put the two cups of chicken broth or stock in a saucepan on the stovetop and bring to a simmer, and then set to very low heat. You’re just keeping it hot, but not too hot. Don’t boil it.

Rinse the chicken inside and out under constantly running cold water in the sink. Remove all objects, including those the chickens was born with, but separated from by the butcher, from the inside of the chicken. Set aside all these residual objects. You don’t need them to roast the chicken. Pat the chicken dry all over with paper towels, and set on a bed of paper towels on the counter.

[Substitute the following directions for the above paragraph, stricken out. It is important not to wash the chicken, as splashes and water droplets can travel as much as three or four feet and cause cross contamination of the kitchen in places you may not at first be aware of. Also, be careful to be mindful whenever you handle the chicken with your bare hands (I keep a box of latex gloves, usually used by health and food prep professionals, in the kitchen, which makes it a little easier to prevent contamination; nevertheless, wash your hands with soap and water after every time you handle the poultry and before touching any other surface, utensil, tool, or object, with or without gloves. If you’re allergic to latex, use one of the many latext substitutes readily available; it’s a common sensitivity).

Place the chicken breast side up, on a rack or not as you prefer, directly in the pan. Reach into the chicken and remove any packet of parts or loose parts: internal organs, including the liver, gizzard, heart, and often the neck, left there by the butcher and safely set aside, either for disposal or for use in other dishes or preparations (like a stock or sauce). Between the prececding step and after each of the following steps, wash your hands with soap and water, and dry them on a clean towel or paper towel. It’s a pain in the ass, but having no one get sick—and no one for whom I’ve cooked has, fortunately, ever been sick that I know of, in nearly 50 years of working in the kitchen—makes it worth it. Nothing ruins a great meal like having a guest in the bathroom retching.]

First salt and pepper the inside of the chicken through the cavity in the rear end. While you’re doing this you can pull away from the carcass all extraneous gobbets of chicken fat, and set them aside with the goodies the butcher stuffed inside.

Turn the chicken over, breast side down, and drizzle about a tablespoon of oil on the chicken and then rub it all over the bottom. All surfaces. Turn the chicken over, and set it down on the paper towels and repeat with the breast side up. You should end up with a fully oiled chicken, including all crevices.

Salt and pepper all readily accessible surfaces of the chicken, top and bottom.

In a low-sided metal roasting pan, large enough to accommodate the chicken with at least an inch or two around it, but no more, on all sides, put the remaining oil and spread it on the inside of the pan. Place the chicken breast-side up in the pan, more or less in the center.

Place the chicken in its pan in the oven, in the center of the rack.

From this point on, unless preparing other dishes for your meal that may present a risk of contamination, you may relax your vigilance about keeping things, especially your own hands and apron, towels, etc. from getting contaminated. This is also a good place to say, perhaps redundantly, to start being mindful of how important it is that chicken, or any other poultry, is completely cooked through before serving it: which means maybe that thermometer would be a good necessity, rather than an option. Wash your hands with soap and water one last time and wipe them dry on a clean towel.

Ideally, in about five minutes you should begin to hear sputtering sounds emit from the oven.

Fifteen minutes after you started the chicken, remove the pan to the stove top, and then pour in enough of the stock (careful it will spatter a little at first) to surround the chicken in about an inch, or a little more, of the liquid. With the bulb baster, quickly baste the bird all over the top with the liquid. Replace the pan in the oven, and once you’ve closed the door, lower the temperature of the oven to 450 degrees.

Every 12-15 minutes, without fail, open the oven, and if you can do it with the pan in the oven, baste the bird all over. If not, take the pan out, close the oven, and baste it on the stove top. If the liquid goes below the one-inch level, add some more from the saucepan.

The chicken will brown very quickly and evenly (unless your oven is a total disaster), and will have started visibly to do so the first time you take the bird out to pour in the broth. After about an hour (you should have basted it by this point four to five times), grab hold of the leg and move it using the thigh joint as a fulcrum. If the bird is done (which is possible, but unlikely) the joint will feel kind of loose. If it’s not moving at all, the bird is not done. Go ahead with the basting that’s due at that point, and put the bird back to cook some more.

After another fifteen minutes, the joint should feel loose, especially compared to the first time you tried. If so, or even if not, this is when you should use your thermometer. Carefully insert the probe into the fleshiest part of the thigh, and try to avoid touching a bone. Inserting it about an inch is sufficient. The bird is ready to remove from the oven if the temperature is at least 160 degrees (for you sticklers, I’m aware that USDA safe minimum recommended temperature is 165°, it will reach that temperature). In all events, the bird should not cook for more than another five minutes.

Remove the pan to the stove top and place a tent of aluminum foil over the top of it.

After five minutes, remove the bird and its tent to a serving platter or cutting board. In the process of removing the bird from the pan, you will discover that there are cooking liquids that have accumulated in the cavity. Upend the bird as you move it and allow these to pour into the pan with the rest of the juices.

Using the bulb baster, one of those special fat skimming cooking spoon, or even, if you want to get fancy, a fat separating graduate [this is a good one, also available from other online retailers, and most kitchenware stores: http://www.cooking.com/2-c-good-grips-fat-separator-strainer-with-lid-by-oxo_411711_11/]. remove all but about 1-2 tablespoons of fat from the liquid left in the pan. Put the ban on a burner and turn it to high, and the liquid should be boiling turbulently in about a minute. Add a bit more of whatever stock or broth is left, and add, maybe, an ounce or two of dry white wine. Let the added liquids boil off and allow the sauce to reduce until it coats a spoon, all the while scraping with a heat-proof (wood or silicone) spatula or flat whisk. You should end up with ½ to ¾ of a cup of sauce.

And you’re good to go.

If you’re really good, I’ll tell you how to prepare some pan roasted potatoes at the same time the chicken is cooking, potatoes that you might just consider perfect, of their kind, as well.

I can’t swear that an American chicken, even as good as those in Lancaster County, will measure up to a Poulet de Bresse, but as far as my taste memory serves, it will be as good as any other chicken I’ve roasted in France.

Eat it while it’s warm. And as the wait staff at a local restaurant back in Philadelphia, kids with not an apparent ironic molecule in their bodies, insists on saying, “bone appeteet!”