A Recipe for Cooking Read online

  A RECIPE FOR COOKING

  DEDICATION

  For Kathleen—everything I cook,

  everything I do, is more delicious with you

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Foreword by Chris Thile

  INTRODUCTION

  General Notes on Cooking

  APERITIVI: BEFORE THE BEGINNING Olives with Citrus Zests and Fried Herbs

  Pistachios or Almonds Toasted with Saffron and Lemon

  Cold-Brined Carrots

  Stuffed Cucumber Barrels

  Pizza Dough Crackers

  Chard with Almonds, Raisins, and Pecorino to Top Pizza Dough Crackers

  Fish Tartare

  Fish Rillettes

  Frico

  Vegetable Fritters

  Fish Fritters

  TO START: FIRST COURSES Spring Agnolotti del Plin in Brodo with Sweet Peas

  Brodo

  Chicken Stock

  Asparagus and Fish Confit Salad with Golden Beets, Fennel, and Aïoli

  Fried Wild Shrimp with Fresh Turmeric, Sesame, and Snap Pea Salad

  Grilled Asparagus with Homemade Pancetta and Hazelnut Salsa

  Pancetta

  Savory Flaky Tart with Onions, Olives, and Anchovies

  Sweet Pea Risotto

  Wild Salmon Gravlax with Shaved Asparagus Salad

  Gravlax

  Grilled New Onions and Artichokes with Romesco Sauce

  Green Garlic Budino with Roasted Asparagus

  Summer Eggplant Salad Two Ways

  Fish Carpaccio with Gingered Cucumbers, Melon, and Cucumber Gelée

  Hand-Cut Pasta with Squid, Basil, Tomato, and Bread Crumbs

  Slow-Baked Salmon with Shell Bean Salad, Sage, and Aïoli

  Corn Soup with Roasted Red Pepper and Wild Mushrooms

  Eggplant Dorato Baked with Tomato, Basil, and Parmesan

  Fig and Sweet Pepper Salad with Mint and Crème Fraîche

  Sungold Tomato and Melon Salad with Whipped Ricotta, Basil, and Black Pepper

  Dos Gazpachos

  Fall Grilled Chanterelle Mushrooms with Gremolata, Crème Fraîche, and Corncakes

  Asian Pear and Fennel Salad with Frico

  Butternut Squash Panade with Red Wine, Thyme, and Gruyère

  Farro and Escarole Salad with Pomegranate, Pancetta, Cilantro, and Aged Goat Cheese

  Magic Pumpkin Caramelle with Wild Nettles and Sweet Red Chili

  Roasted Root and Frisée Salad with Duck Confit and Red Pepper Vinaigrette

  Duck Confit with Fennel Seed

  Porcini Mushroom Soup with Coriander, Celery, and Mint

  Bitter Greens Pansotti with Salsa di Noci

  Winter Citrus Salad with Ginger, Cilantro, and Saffron-Toasted Pistachios

  Fish with Crisp Skin, Celery Root Puree, and Celery and Lemon Salsa

  Jerusalem Artichoke Salad, Which Is Good with Parmesan and Very Good with Black Truffle

  Belgian Endive and Smoked Cod Salad with Beets and Walnut Vinaigrette

  Radicchio Salad with Herbs, Sun-Dried Tomatoes, and Crème Fraîche Dressing

  AND THEN: SECOND COURSES Vegetable Couscous with Two Sauces

  Not-Potluck Lasagna or 15-Layer Lasagna

  Fish Fillets Stuffed with Bread Crumbs, Saffron, Pine Nuts, and Currants

  Fish and Shellfish Soup for Summer

  Fish Soup in Winter

  Pan-Fried Fishcakes

  Chicken al Mattone

  Chou Farci, or Chicken Stuffed All Up in a Cabbage Leaf

  Yogurt-Fried Black Pepper Chicken

  Turkey Breast Scaloppine Grilled with Herbs: A Rallying Cry

  Duck Cooked Two Ways

  Lamb Shoulder Braised with Moroccan Spices and Green Olives

  Spicy Ground Pork with Ginger, Lime, Peppers, and Green Beans

  Pork Belly Braised with Fennel Seeds and Sweet Wine

  Rolled Pork Loin Roast Stuffed with Olives and Herbs

  Cast-Iron Pan Roast

  Braised and Grilled or Griddled Short Ribs

  ALONGSIDE Spring Carrot Puree with Caraway Seeds

  Fried Potato and Garlic Puffs

  Snap Peas with Scallions and Sage

  Spring Onion Champ

  Artichokes (or Fennel or Cauliflower) Baked with Anchovies and Bread Crumbs

  Summer Creamed Sweet Corn Polenta

  Romano Beans Long-Cooked with Garlic Cloves and Savory

  Steamed Eggplant with Sesame, Scallions, and Chili Oil

  Potato and Tomato Gratin with Basil

  Fall Roasted Cauliflower Strascinato with Olives and Capers

  Davio’s Broccoli with Garlic and Lemon

  Pan-Fried Potatoes al Mattone

  Roasted Winter Squash with Brown Butter

  Creamy Kale with Onions

  Winter Rutabaga Slaw

  Steamed and Grilled Belgian Endives

  Belgian Endive Gratin with Pecorino and Prosciutto

  Fried Parsnip Chips

  Sweet and Hot Savoy Cabbage

  White Root Puree (Which Is Very Good with Black Truffle . . . Also Without)

  SAUCES Red Wine Vinaigrette

  Pink Peppercorn and Grapefruit Vinaigrette

  Tomato Vinaigrette

  Walnut Vinaigrette

  Citrus Zest Vinaigrette

  Béarnaise

  Beurre Blanc

  Crème Fraîche, with Variations

  Fried Herb Salsa

  Romesco Sauce

  Salsa Rossa

  Béchamel

  Cilantro-Coconut Chutney

  Caponatina

  Chermoula

  Harissa

  Fresh Turmeric Salsa

  Mayonnaise, Aïoli, and Rouille

  Mostarda

  Summer Marinara

  Pickled Peaches and Red Onions

  Salsa di Noci

  FINALLY: DESSERTS Spring Rhubarb Flaky Tart

  Vanilla Ice Cream, Quick-Style

  Apricot Ice Cream

  Mint Ice Milk

  Summer Peaches

  Peaches with Crisp Stuffing

  Tender Berry Butter Tart

  Plum Flaky Tart

  Fig Ice Cream

  Fall Bosc Pears Cooked in Red Wine

  Crème Fraîche Ice Cream, Quick-Style

  Pear Flaky Tart

  Persimmon Toast with Chocolate, Pistachios, and Cream

  Pomegranate Ice with Golden Almond Tuiles

  Mango Fool

  Winter Chocolate Ice with Crisp Almond Meringues

  Apple Flaky Tart with Lemon Peel

  Orange and Cardamom Cream Tart

  Chocolate Soufflé

  Acknowledgments

  Universal Conversion Chart

  Index

  Also by Cal Peternell

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  Hello, Fellow Lover of Food. My name is Chris, and I do not know how to cook.

  During what would otherwise have been my college/getting-so-sick-of-Top-Ramen-that-you-start-doing-something-about-it years, I was on tour with a band I cofounded called Nickel Creek. Days off and hotel rooms with kitchenettes almost never coincided. Days off and restaurants owned by buddies of concert promoters, on the other hand . . .

  So I never learned how to cook, but boy did I ever learn how to eat! I would spend every minute that wasn’t earmarked for music-making figuring out how to put my bandmates and myself in the way of the absolute best dinners possible, and those dinners ended up sustaining us in ways that went far beyond physical nourishment. They gave us a chance to catch our breath, to relate to each other as people (not just musicians), and to develop a strong sense of community despite our nomadic existence . . . and they were fun as hell.

  But when I arrived back home after a month or two of that, rather than boldly head for the kitchen to see if I could stumble into a passable re-creation of any of the incredible food I’d just eaten, I would go right back out my front door to see how my local restaurants were stacking up to the cream of the past tour’s crop. That was my relationship with food: a long series of lovely one-night stands. Until I started hanging out with a fellow named Mike Marshall.

  Mike knows how to play and cook. I spent a week making a record with him at his place in Oakland, California, and it changed my entire outlook on the nature of eating. I’d been using food as a means of escape from/reward for withstanding the cares of the day, whereas Mike saw it and those very same cares as mutually beautifying strands to be woven into the fabric of a good day. As I look back, it’s impossible to say exactly when or how the meals and music would begin or end. I’d wake up, drag my mandolin out to the kitchen (perhaps to make sure I could remember something we’d come up with the night before and not properly documented . . . ah, wine!), and find Mike pouring old-school stovetop espresso, cutting biscotti fresh out of the oven, and grabbing his mandolin to join in on the hunt for last night’s idea. And as if by magic, fresh fruit and an omelet would appear—but we would also find the missing idea, and wait, whoa, there’s that song written, and are we actually having the best smoked chicken salad on earth for lunch now? Hard to tell because we’re also about to finish recording that song on the wings of the last round of espresso and a square of dark chocolate while rolling pasta dough, washing the chanterelles we foraged earlier (?!?), and discussing each other’s relationships over an early evening glass of hot damn, Mikey, this is the life!!! To which he would invariably reply, “Dude, this is nothing. You gotta h
ang with my buddy Cal.”

  And hang with his buddy, Cal Peternell, I did. I suspect if you’ve gotten this far, Fellow Lover of Food, you know at least a little about Cal’s subtle but rampant badassery. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was listening. Listening in a rare, wonderful way to everyone and everything: his guests (in this case, Mike and me), his beautiful family, the pans on the stove, the vegetables under his knife, the record playing in the background . . . listening as if every sound were part of a recipe for a beautiful evening with which the universe had entrusted us. The next thing I noticed was his selfless virtuosity. Virtuosity for its own sake (I think of the last tower of molecular gastronomy I dared raise my fork against, or Paganini’s twenty-four death-defying caprices) can be thrilling, but only rarely transcendent. True virtuosi place their technical accomplishment at the service of their imaginations and the imaginations of their collaborators and audience. If you’ve ever listened to Glenn Gould play Bach’s Goldberg Variations, or dined at Chez Panisse during Cal’s tenure as head chef, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That inaugural feast was a brilliant, unhurried, graceful fantasia, both composed and improvised, for kitchen, living room, dining room, and seven people.

  I mean, I still heartily disagree with Mike’s humble assessment of his own formidable cooking and hospitality chops, but can confirm just as heartily that Cal is a bona fide master. All subsequent meals over the last ten-plus years, whether at Chez Panisse or Chez Someone We Know, have been equally revelatory. A multi-part exploration/celebration of the good things life has to offer, and of the fact that though human beings are the absolute worst in myriad ways, we’re also uniquely capable of extracting beauty and meaning from just about anything.

  And so, Fellow Lover of Food, I wish you great joy in your pursuit of the most beautiful mornings, afternoons, and evenings imaginable, with this book as a guide. Actually, you know what? I’m gonna join you. I may not know how to cook, but my buddy Cal just gave me the recipe!

  Chris Thile

  Portland, Oregon (but probably somewhere else when you read this)

  2016

  INTRODUCTION

  I remember the day my professional cooking life changed, the day it started to make sense with the rest of my life and not seem like it was time for a new career. We were out food shopping, and my wife, Kathleen, had parked across from the cheese shop and right in front of Chez Panisse.

  “You can’t park here,” I told her. “It’s a yellow curb.”

  “I’m not parking, I’m dropping you off. You should work here; this is the right place for you. Go in, they’ll hire you, you’re great.”

  “But I already have a job, and . . . me? At Chez Panisse!?” I said to the back of the car as my pregnant wife and our three-year-old son pulled away. Then, I turned and went in and got myself hired at an amazing restaurant, the kind that keeps cooks around and allows them to mature both in and out of the kitchen.

  Kathleen was right that day, and twenty years and two sons later, the place still inspires me and encourages me to inspire others—not just guests and cooks, but my sons as well. I’ve taught them a lot, and though they know the basics of eating and cooking well, lately I was sensing that they seemed ready for more. Or some of the time they did. My second son, Milo, born the year I started working at Chez Panisse, will still throw down like lots of other kids, cooking up bagel melts or quesadillas, bean dip or poached eggs for his little brother, Liam. But there’s also interest in some serious cooking, real sauces, homemade pasta or pizza, exotic ingredients and complex preparations. Henderson, my eldest, cooked his way through art school in New York, spending mornings stretching canvases and mixing colors and evenings rolling pasta, composing salads, and stirring sauces at some first-class restaurants. He, and Milo, have done stints in the kitchens and dining rooms at Chez Panisse, and even young Liam helps pop favas from their skins after school, wondering aloud who came up with a bean that has to be peeled twice.

  “And who even likes them?” he marvels.

  From opening cans into skillets to separating eggs for soufflés, we do many types of cooking. They share a simple aim—getting ourselves fed—but how we cook and how we eat can vary widely and depend on a complex equation whose factors include appetite, time, funds, ingredients, and motivation. When the equation adds up in a way that allows for it, we might take some time, allow our minds and skillets to wander, and find that is where the fun can be. In the same way that a taco eaten at the truck in the parking lot can be every bit as satisfying as a sit-down, multi-course, fancy restaurant dinner, the quickest, humblest meal made at home can be just as good as the most involved and luxurious one. There are the meals for when time is short, when eggs are easy enough to boil and halve and set alongside a fresh leafy salad, warm roasted vegetables, or a ladleful of beans for a fine home-cooked meal with minimal cleanup. I love the simple pastas, curries, and soups that many of us survive on and can put quickly together on weeknights and that, when combined with excellent tablemates, reliably make good food into great meals. But sometimes we’re inspired to do a little more, and sometimes, a lot more. Deciding wisely when to cook what is essential for remaining in the comfortable context of your life, while still eating well. Maintaining that balance can be tricky—hunger, housework, homework, overtime, and simply not enough time can knock a cook out of whack and into frustration.

  Fortunately, there is a recipe for cooking. Unwritten, perhaps, and not a recipe for a single dish, but for cooking itself. It is not fixed, and the variations are numberless. The ingredient list includes not only the foodstuffs and equipment available, your skill level, budget, and friends to help clean up, but also—especially—the amount of time you’re able to put in. An occasion can change the cooking recipe a bit—maybe you’ll add a dash more time, toss in a handful of family helpers, push some skill level limits, and crack, if not break, the budget. A birthday, a holiday, a dinner with old and new friends, or just a couple of quiet days ahead of you, and going all out, or mostly out, starts the wheels turning and mouth watering. Maybe marinating a big cut of meat to grill or roast is in order, or seasoning a pork shoulder or some duck legs for braising up sweet and tender the next day. Something impressive and delicious that you can start today and finish tomorrow and will, overnight, quietly impart a sense of well-being, of multitasking acumen. Maybe you’ll even make dessert and maybe, like me, you have kids who are eager(ish) to help with project-oriented cooking like this. Especially with the dessert.

  This is a cookbook for when you want to cook more than what’s just necessary, for when you want to do some plotting and planning, plenty of stirring and peeling, and a measure of fretting over the little things. It’s not only about cooking for groups—a dinner for two can involve every bit as much thought and effort as a holiday feast—but it is always for when we want to steer our cooking in a direction farther than simply bellyward. These are recipes for meals to put together when the cooking’s the thing: for when we have good friends to laugh, drink, and cook with, or for when we want to dig deep into recipes and spend some quiet kitchen hours collecting ourselves by slicing, seasoning, and simmering. Dinners to make introductions, to commemorate, to celebrate, even, on occasion, to gently instigate. Lunches, too, the kind that last, with plenty of cold wine, lazily served courses, and plans for naps or long walks before dinner. These meals needn’t be expensive. Forethought really helps, but you needn’t be bound by it. Conviction and a positive spirit, though they may ebb and flow, are necessary.

  These are recipes from home, but because there is really no way to disentangle the way I cook at home and what we do at Chez Panisse, this book constitutes a blending of two kitchens, uniting the generosity and warmth of home with the integrity and focus of work. There is a commonality that makes kitchens a sort of public space, no matter where they are. We make them our own, but we don’t own them, nor would we want to—kitchens are for sharing: sharing food, sharing stories, and sharing counter space. The kitchen is the room where transformations of substance happen and where a material contact with the world outside is made. Regardless of where you bought it, your sustenance came from a patch of dirt on a farm, and it entered your home, as a friend would, through the kitchen door.