Robbwalsh.com

Update: Kudos for Hot Sauce

robbwalsh — Sun, 19 May 2013 09:11:49 +0000

Review in the Oregonian: “In a nutshell: If you like to pour on the heat, you’ll dig the firepower in this new cookbook of pepper sauce recipes. Rather than offering creative uses for bottled sauces, hot sauce authority Robb Walsh shows how you can create fresher versions using chiles, fresh veggies and basic kitchen tools. Then he uses them to ramp up everything from Bloody Marys and buffalo wings to ice cream. And the hot stuff isn’t limited to American palates — there are dishes representing the spicy fare of African and Southeast Asian cuisine — proof that hot sauce has global appeal.” -Grant Butler

Robb Walsh is the founder of the Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival, now in its 23rd year. As the former editor-in-chief of Chile Pepper Magazine, he is a recognized authority on all things piquant. His new combination cookbook/fermentation project manual/food history will appeal to the legions of chileheads around the world. With chapters on the history of hot sauce, tips and recipes for making your own sauces at home, and more than 50 recipes using hot sauce- ranging from Nuclear Wings to Carolina Sloppy Joes to Spicy Bloody Marys to Pickapeppa Pot Roast – The Hot Sauce Cookbook is the ultimate cookbook for pepper sauce aficionados.

Order the Hot Sauce Cookbook now!

Sneak Preview: Houston on Burger Land TV

robbwalsh — Sat, 04 May 2013 15:05:35 +0000

A sneak preview of the Houston Burger Land episode that will air Monday, May 6 at 8 p.m on the Travel Channel.

The Ramen Tsunami: Tatsu-ya Austin

robbwalsh — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 13:12:37 +0000

Tatsu-ya Ramen has taken Austin by storm. Rumor has it the owners will soon launch a second location in Houston. Here’s a few impressions from a recent visit to the Austin ramen hot spot.

Saturday Ramen

By Katie Walsh

Early on a Saturday night, the line at Tatsu-ya is manageable. We seem to arrive at just the right time; by the time my friends and I take our first slurp of cream-colored pork bone tonkotsu, the line is very long and the crowd is getting loud and rowdy.

Tatsu-ya was the first of the ramen tsunami to hit Austin back in September, and it made quite a splash, drawing steady lines ever since and scoring a 2012 Eater Austin “So Hot Right Now” award.

Many have raved about their tonkotsu, the main menu item; ramen with a rich, milky colored broth that they reduce for anywhere from 12 to 60 hours. The tonkotsu comes three ways, so we ordered it three ways (they also serve a veggie ramen, but only on Sundays).

The Number 1 Original ($8.50, pictured above) is the straight-up classic tonkotsu. It comes with a slice of chashu pork belly, naruto maki fish cake, curls of woodear mushroom and fresh scallions.

Oh, and a super silky ajitama soft-boiled egg, which is soaked in a seasoned soy sauce marinade until the white deepens in color, and then sliced in half to reveal an almost jam-like, sultry golden yolk.

My friend ordered hers with the Corn on the Bomb ($1), one of many flavor “bombs” you can mix into your broth. An indulgent ball of sweet butter and fresh corn kernels, we stirred small bits into spoonfuls of soup for sinfully creamy bites. The broth is deeply rich on its own, so a little of this bomb goes a long way.

I went for the Number 2 Sho-yu ($8.75), made with a special house-made soy sauce, bamboo shoots, peppercorn, and roasted nori seaweed. I added a topping of roasted Brussels sprouts and a homemade chile garlic Spicy Bomb, both of which I strongly recommend.

Our dining companion chose the Number 3 Mi-So-Hot/Mi-So-Not, ($9 for not, $10 for hot), which has miso mixed into the broth and is served with ground pork, cabbage and bean sprouts. While the first two are pretty similar, this one really has a unique flavor; earthy and malty from the miso and heartier on the pork flavor.

Tatsu-ya also serves a dipping ramen with lime called Tsukemen, citrus-shichimi-jalapeño edamame, mochi ice and other little bites. But looking around the place, jam-packed and bumpin’, almost everyone is twirling noodles and slurping that pearly broth—the tonkotsu is clearly the star.

Don’t bother trying to skip the lines by getting your ramen to go. The restaurant is known for firm, al dente noodles and the owners discourage to-go boxes and flatly refuse take-out orders–they want to insure you eat your noodles fresh and not soggy.

Come hungry. Get comfy.

Walsh Family Venison Pâté

robbwalsh — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 17:40:37 +0000

By Katie Walsh

I spent some time in Houston with my dad On A Meat Mission, to learn about meat and how it’s cooked. Over the next several weeks we’ll be sharing recipes and tales from our meaty adventures.

Up to my elbows in bits of raw venison, trimming away pieces of membrane and feeding chunks of clean meat into the sausage grinder, my adventures with meat had reached their peak. It was pâté day.

My friends crinkle their noses when I recall that afternoon on the back porch (where Dad and I had preemptively banished ourselves to contain the mess), and my fellow veggie-heads seem downright bewildered that I describe it with excitement and not trauma.

Dad showing me how to skim away the slimy membrane

But raw meat don’t give me no willies; in fact I got some sort of primal pleasure out of handling the flesh and bones myself, and especially out of creating something from an animal I’d all but known personally. This deer and I had travelled great lengths together.

When I told my Uncle Dave that I was heading to Houston to cook meat with Dad, he promptly began arranging to send me down with some of the spoils of his latest hunting trip. As I’d dragged my luggage up to the Megabus in Austin, the cargo guy raised his eyebrows at me.

“What’s in the cooler?” he asked.

“Deer meat,” I said simply.

“Any water or ice?” he asked. I lifted the top so he could peer in. “Go ahead then.” I’d just picked a seat and started to get comfy when a voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Passenger with the deer meet, passenger with the deer meat, please see the driver.”

I couldn’t quite tell if it was pride or embarrassment (or both) that flushed my cheeks as I stood back up. After a brief moment of panic I was reassured my deer would indeed accompany me to Houston, the driver just needed to know which stop he’d be getting off at.

And now here we were, co-creating something delicious. Call me Moonbeam Starchild, but I really felt that deer right there with me on the porch. It wasn’t disgust or squeamishness or indifference that I felt while separating the muscles of his haunch; it was an overwhelming sense of gratitude, as though he’d gifted me this experience.

As I worked with the meat, Dad roasted the bones, which we’d boil down into a stock, and then gradually a beautiful, thick consumé. They were so massive, he had to use pruning shears to cut through them so they’d fit in the pot (“Well don’t show them that!” he says. Sorry Pops, we keepin’ it REAL!).

A splash of gin, a handful of juniper berries and chile pequin; some fatty pork and a pint of chicken livers; salt, pepper, and lots of fresh rosemary and thyme from the driveway herb garden. These are the makings of a badass country pâté.

Running all of the ingredients indiscriminately through the grinder gets them all chopped up and broken down, but we batched the mixture through the Kitchen Aid as well to make sure everything got stirred up proper.

Line you up a couple of loaf pans with bacon (we went with peppered), fill ‘em halfway with the meat mixture, and then add a healthy layer of pistachio meats. Top it off, bake in a water bath, and weight it down a while to push the liquid out as it cools. It’s a commitment, especially if you’re grinding your own meat, but I found it worth every ounce of effort.

There was no guessing whether this meat had been humanely raised or factory farmed. I never had to worry about the deer’s diet or whether it had been pumped full of antibiotics. I spent zero time reading labels or researching what unsavory fillers might be mixed into the loaf. Just me, the buck, and the grinder. So what’s a little gunk under the fingernails?

Walsh Family Venison Pâté
Adapted from Charleston Magazine

Yield: 3 (9×5) loaf pans

Cook time: 2 hours, plus time to cool and chill

Ingredients:
4 pounds venison
2 pounds fatty pork
1 pint chicken livers
4 green onions
8 cloves garlic
1 tablespoon juniper berries
2 tablespoons fresh thyme
2 tablespoons fresh rosemary
2 tablespoons ground allspice
1 tablespoon dried chile pequin
Salt and pepper to taste
2 eggs
2 ounces gin
1 1/2 pounds bacon
1/2 cup pistachios, shelled

In a food processor or sausage grinder, process venison, pork, chicken livers, onions, garlic and spices into a purée, working in batches if necessary.

Run the puree through a stand mixer with the eggs and gin, again working in batches, until all ingredients are thoroughly combined.

Preheat the oven to 300º F. Line three 9×5 loaf pans with bacon on all sides, trimming as needed. Fill each pan halfway with the ground meat mixture, packing down with your hands as you go.

Distribute the pistachios evenly among the pans, pressing them into the meat slightly. Top each pan off with remaining meat, shaping into a smooth dome (pans should be overfilled). Cover with remaining bacon and aluminum foil.

Place covered pans in a deep baking dish and fill with a water bath until pans are about halfway submerged. Baking dish will be very heavy. Bake for 35 minutes, then another 25 minutes without foil. Check temperature; pâté is done when a meat thermometer reads 160ºF and juices run clear.

Drain water from baking dish and recover loaf pans with fresh foil. Place pans back into empty baking dish to catch spills. Lay a dish towel and then cutting board or other flat surface across all three pans and weight down with at least one half pound (we used a few heavy books). Let the pâté cool while weighted on the counter.

Once cooled, cover and refrigerate for at least 24 hours and preferably three days, to bring out flavors and spice. Serve at room temperature or cold with hearty crackers, French bread, and mustard. Pâté can be kept tightly covered for up to three weeks in the refrigerator.

Book Release Update

robbwalsh — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 07:55:47 +0000

Dining with Dad: The Pass, Taste-By-Taste

robbwalsh — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 17:00:24 +0000

By guest blogger Katie Walsh

I spent some time in Houston with my dad On A Meat Mission, to learn about meat and how it’s cooked. Over the next several weeks we’ll be sharing recipes and tales from our meaty adventures.

A few weeks ago, I was oblivious to the French-style “tasting menu” trend sweeping the restaurant scene. Riding around Houston with Dad, he broke it down for me (as he does in this month’s Houstonia review of his birthday dinner at Tony’s); its degustation origins, its surge in popularity, its delights, and the outcries it’s inspired. On this night, he’d made reservations for just the two of us at the tasting menu half of Seth Siegel-Gardner and Terrence Gallivan’s The Pass & Provisions.

As we walked through Provisions to get to The Pass, I couldn’t help noticing that the former seemed like the place to be. Big groups, lots of laughter, colorful outfits and characters. The hostess pushed all of her weight into the far wall as we followed and it gave, an entire solid section sliding back like a hidden passageway, revealing the entrance to the quieter, dimmer, intimate dining room of The Pass.

The first morsel to hit our table was an off-menu amuse-bouche, a wildly shaped dehydrated shrimp chip served in a rough stone pedestal, like an artwork. Translucent and flecked with bits of Japanese shichimi togarashi spice and black sesame seed, it burst with flavor and then almost melted in the mouth.

Then the tasting officially began. We each went with the full eight-course menu.

1. “Snacks”

Oyster on the half shell, simple and clean with a vibrant mignonette and small sprig of fennel; Old Fashioned cocktail “foie gras” (“It’s like a jello shot!” said Dad) and a Pocky stick coated in white chocolate and dehydrated black olive, which worked way better than I expected, sweet and salty and crunchy.

The standout of this course was a warm, pureed shot of green soup topped with a hearty dose of orange foam, made from nasturtium—all the way from its green leaves to its orange flowers. Herbal, floral, beautifully spiced and a lovely taste of comfort next to all the snacks. I took baby sips of mine, savoring every bit.

2. “Ham & Eggs”

This one was among the best all night; both the dish itself and its illustration of the menu’s playfulness. Far from the sunnyside-up images that its name conjures, here “ham” referred to big, curled pieces of housemade chicharron, dusted with ham powder and served on a rustic slab of wood in the middle of the table, popping and crackling as we ate.

“Eggs” referred to cleverly deconstructed caviar service: an indulgently plump, egg-shaped helping of jet black hackleback caviar atop a bed of colorful crumbles—dehydrated egg yolk, capers, red onion, and toasted buckwheat groats—all traditional accompaniments (the buckwheat referencing blinis). Just below the surface lay a thick layer of celery creme fraiche.

Despite the silky sophistication of the roe and the textural journey the dish brings you on, with ham powder on your fingers and chicharron crumbs stuck to your lips, it feels like you could be sitting on your couch with a game day snack.

Dad and I tore this one up. We both might as well have licked our caviar tins clean. They’re right to serve it early on, while you’ve got plenty of room and appetite.

3. “Raw”

I liked eating but loved looking at this one. Orange sherbet-colored uni (sea urchin), curls of clam and hamachi sashimi, a spiral of nori “bucatini,” tufts of smokey foam and a sprinkling of pearly salmon roe and edible flowers. I wanted to pluck the whole arrangement up and wear it like a corsage.

Flavor-wise, eh. The individual pieces were good but didn’t totally come together for me. The butter-soft fresh tofu and nori noodle were lovely, but naked and bland, while the pungency of the uni and foam went unchecked. I’m not sure what that smoke in the foam is, but it ruined the dish for me, overpowering all of those delicate flavors.

4. “Beef”

This one was a favorite. Breaking into the mound of tartare and microgreens on the plate releases a pool of egg yolk, while a bit of bone is hollowed out and converted into a “shaker” of powdered marrow, topped with a cute little golden popover (great for sopping up your extra egg yolk).

5. “Bread”

A miniature piece of onion soup-soaked French toast stands upright on the plate, accompanied by a whole symphony of onion companions. A cabernet-colored pile of red onion jam, a few caramelized pearls, delicate tissue-like layers of pickled onion, and a scoop of Spanish onion and black garlic ice cream topped with winding antlers of dehydrated Cippolini. The plate is sprinkled with a Parmesan snow, visually cuing powdered sugar—it is the most fun I’ve ever had playing between the scales of sweet and savory inherent in everyone’s favorite allium.

6. “Pig”

By this time I was starting to feel full and a little bit of richness overload—not helped by the crispy headcheese topped with chestnut puree nor decadent blood pudding, though both were incredible. I was a little scared (having never tried them before), but didn’t find a dang thing funky about either one.

The “candied apple”—bits of apple cradled in brussels sprout leaves over a smear of caramel, along with a perfect sliver of dehydrated green apple garnish—were welcome departures from all that richness, but still not quite enough to cut through it.

Then, slowly, things began to wind down. An off-menu intermezzo played on egg creams—inside an egg-shaped dish, a dome of egg yolk ice cream frozen with liquid nitrogen was to be cracked open and eaten with a housemade cacao soda. The soda was divine and the dish was super clever, but with continued punches of sweet and rich, I found myself longing for something lighter.

7. “Fernet”

Fernet is an aromatic digestif made from a variety of herbs and spices, hailing from Italy and nationally revered in Argentina. The exact blend of ingredients changes a bit from one maker to the next, making each brand unique. This course was an herb nerd’s dream—all types of wonky-looking mushrooms, herb sprigs and bits of dehydrated this-and-that growing out of a snaking length of milk chocolate and fernet gelatin, accented with sweet beet powder, saffron ice cream, and dots of sparkling anise syrup. Dad just poked at this round.

I really enjoyed it for its weirdness and reference to the many herbs used to make fernet, but as a dish I didn’t find a “wholeness” in it, just a crazy party of pieces. I was also reaching palate fatigue and growing really tired of ice cream.

7. “Cheese”

A pile of golden fried little doughnuts, blackberries, a long thin stretch of ricotta aged in scorzonera ash and I want to say a drizzle of honey, but who knows, by this point I was struggling to stay present.

I wanted so much to enjoy the sharp earthy cheese and soft sugar-and-mustard-dusted doughnuts, but my stomach couldn’t handle the uninterrupted richness. As it approached midnight, Dad was losing steam as well.

8. Petits Fours

Our bellies full and eyelids drooping, we wrapped up the last course (an arrangement of petits fours) and hit the road. Pretty as it was, I was so ready for bed I forgot to take a picture.

Overall, it was such a fun and special experience. It had been quite a while since I’d worn heels or been treated to such a high-brow meal, and especially since I’d hogged Dad’s dinner company all to myself. We clinked glasses of rosé champagne, speculated on strange flavors, and mused on the makings of a great tasting menu.

The experience of dining at The Pass felt a little like getting admitted to VIP at a concert. Pressed white tablecloths and empty walls, velvety black seats, everyone gussied up and in quiet conversation, the peek “backstage” into the open kitchen—it felt like an exclusive treat to be there, sheltered from the raucous crowd outside.

The service was incredible; in a highly syncopated dance, waitstaff, the two chefs and the dapper sommelier whisked out onto the floor in intervals, offering each guest detailed and diligent attention.

I feel like there were a few missed opportunities to cleanse the palate and settle the stomach at the end of the meal, a lack of crisp flavors like citrus or ginger and overload of sweetness, dairy and fat.

Although each individual course is intricate and clearly well thought out, I got the sense that the menu as a whole was never really tested out, from soup to nuts. It’s so heavy on back-to-back bold and creamy flavors that it’s difficult to make it all the way through with a full appreciation for each dish.

It was certainly a great first foray into the tasting menu experience—along with all of the dazzling molecular gastronomy and full flavors, I got a taste of the allure, a taste of the impatience, a taste of the extravagance…

…and a taste of the tease. On the drive home, after describing the feeling of being full but not really satisfied, Dad looked at me with a smirk and asked. “Want a Whataburger?”

Mutt City: Hot Breads and Himalaya Sweets

robbwalsh — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 04:11:58 +0000

Anglo-Indian chicken tikka in French pastry. Welcome to Houston.

By guest blogger Katie Walsh

I spent some time in Houston with my dad On A Meat Mission, to learn about meat and how it’s cooked. Over the next several weeks we’ll be sharing recipes and tales from our meaty adventures.

Taking a break from the kitchen and riding along with Dad on various stops around town, I gasped at a familiar sight as we made our way down Hillcroft.

“HOT BREADS!” I said, wiggling my eyebrows up and down at him. He obliged, pulling into the parking lot as I eagerly unbuckled my seatbelt.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been nearly ten years since my sister Julia and I sampled the Euro-Indian fusion fare of this spicy bakery for a story Dad was working on. The “goat doughnuts,” as we’d affectionately dubbed their curry goat croissants, looked just as tasty as ever.

Hot Breads is so dang cool because of the story it tells about fusion food and blending cultures. An Indian marketing professor returned to Madras after living abroad to open this European-style cafe and bakery, but instead of putting pepperoni on the pizza and ham in the croissants, he went with the popular ingredients of Southern India, creating a cross-cuisine hit. Hot Breads franchises became hugely popular on the subcontinent. Then in a baffling turnabout, franchisees took the concept to the NRI (non-resident Indian) community and all over the world. The huge Indian populations in Houston and New Jersey were easy targets.

Which is how we ended up with a Indian-owned, European-inspired bakery in Houston serving Indo-Chinese “chilli chicken puffs.” No wonder John T. Edge labeled Houston “Mutt City.”

Aside from the savory stuff, Hot Breads sells a ton of great cakes and cookies too, including egg-free stuff for the Jain crowd (and the vegans!). My all-time, hands-down, indisputable favorite is the mango gâteau (about halfway down the row in the picture).

Dreamily light and airy, its layers of lady finger and fluffy mousse burst with sweet, tangy fresh mango flavor. All those years ago, it was love at first bite.

“You’re gonna have to share,” Dad warns me as I watch the woman box it up. These days, the baby sibs are just as fond of Hot Breads mango cake.

Himalaya Sweets

Since we were in the neighborhood, we made a quick pit-stop to see our friend Kaiser at his restaurant Himalaya (I say Him-a-LAY-ah, Kaiser says, Him-ALL-ya.)

I first heard about Kaiser in a talk Dad gave at the Southern Foodways Alliance symposium, about the blending of culinary cultures in Houston. The story Kaiser tells about coming to the States from Pakistan and mistaking flour tortillas for chapati bread is now immortalized on the pages of Texas Eats (along with a recipe for his steak tikka, which Dad calls “Pakistani fajitas”).

Kaiser and his wife are not only great restaurateurs, they’re truly wonderful people. It was such a treat to finally get to meet them in person—and to get a sneak peek of their new desserts.

A recent innovation of Kaiser’s, the vanilla ice cream with spiced rum and sesame brittle was simple and fantastic. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy with memories of sesame candy on Passover. Or maybe it was just the rum.

But the real standout was the Grand Marnier-spiked chocolate custard, with a sprinkle of nuts and a cherry on top. Smooth, rich, creamy, with just the tiniest hint of adult beverage.

But that’s where the afternoon munchies ended—we had to save room for the big fancy dinner we had later that night.

Katie’s Meat Series: Wild Duck Gumbo

robbwalsh — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 18:21:20 +0000

By guest blogger Katie Walsh

I spent some time in Houston with my dad On A Meat Mission, to learn about meat and how it’s cooked. Over the next several weeks we’ll be sharing recipes and tales from our meaty adventures.

With a fridge full of fresh daikon pickles, the next lesson on Dad’s list was wild duck. And what better to do with wild duck than make a big pot of gumbo?

We opened Texas Eats to Chapter 5: The Cajun Invasion and read through a recipe from Jim Gossen. It called for 6 wild ducks—the exact number we had on hand.

As they defrosted, I asked my dad whether they were hard to clean—ours seemed ready to go except for one feathery wing still attached. He explained that usually, a kid at the hunting site charged a couple bucks each to clean them for you, stripping them down to the breast (where most of the meat is) and throwing the rest aside.

One wing had to remain in tact so that the game warden could identify the breed. So the first step was to chop it off.

Lots of teeny feathers had plastered themselves to the clean meat, so after that I carefully plucked them clean, rinsing each bird under water to make sure they were fuzz free. We seasoned the duck breasts inside and out with Cajun seasoning. Then, we covered them with water in a big pot to get the stock started.

Cooking wild duck takes forever. It’s very lean, and very tough, so in order to get it nice and tender you really have to be patient. It would usually take 3-4 hours, but lucky for us we had a pressure cooker, which took it down to a quick 30 minutes.

We lifted them out, replaced them with a whole chicken, and topped off the pot with water. The chicken would continue to flavor the stock and also tone down the strong gamey flavor of all that duck.

Once they were cool enough to handle, I broke the duck breasts away from the bone and pulled the meat apart.

We did the same with the chicken. Meanwhile, we made a copper penny-colored roux and cooled it down with the holy trinity (onions, green pepper and celery) and a couple of minced garlic cloves. We seasoned the roux with white pepper, red pepper, dried thyme, and a little more Cajun seasoning. Then we added the roux a little at a time to our stock to thicken it. Finally, we added all that chopped pulled poultry meat.

To serve it, we would mound rice in the middle of a soup bowl, slide a couple of raw, shucked oysters and then ladle in some hot gumbo. But duck gumbo is one of those dishes that tastes better after a few days in the fridge. So we stowed it away in anticipation of the big party we’d started to plan for the coming weekend.

It was time for a little lunch, anyway.

Recipe: Jim Gossen’s Wild Duck Gumbo (adapted from Texas Eats)

The concept is to select a mix of birds that creates a pleasing combination of flavors. You can add chicken, Cornish game hens or other milder birds to the wild ducks to make your own signature wild duck gumbo.

Makes about 10 quarts gumbo; serves 20

6 wild duck breasts and 1 whole guinea fowl or chicken (or substitute birds of your choice)

1 cup Cajun seasoning (recipe follows)

10 quarts water

3 cloves garlic, crushed and minced

1 small yellow onion, plus 8 cups diced onion

2/3 cup roux (recipe follows)

4 cups diced green bell peppers

4 cups diced celery

5 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

2 tablespoons Tabasco sauce, plus more for serving

1 bay leaf

2 teaspoons dried thyme leaves

2 teaspoons dried oregano leaves

Pinch cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon white pepper

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

10 cups cooked rice

5 sweet potatoes, baked and cut into 1-inch thick rounds

Filé powder, for serving

Clean the birds. Rub generously inside and out with the seasoning mix. In a 20-quart soup pot, bring the water to a boil over high heat. If you are cooking a goose, add it first, as it might take as long as three hours. Place the seasoned birds in the boiling water with the crushed garlic cloves and the small onion, reduce the heat to medium, and cook uncovered for about 1 hour. Check the birds for tenderness. If the meat is so tender it is almost falling off the bones, remove the birds from the pot. If the meat is still tough, keep cooking it, adding water as necessary to keep the birds covered.

When all of the birds are out of the pot, strain the stock through a fine-mesh sieve and return it to the pot. Let the stock stand for a few minutes, then, using a large spoon, skim off all of the fat from the surface. (If you have the time, the easiest way to do this is to put the stock in the refrigerator overnight and lift off the solidified fat in the morning.) When the birds have cooled, remove the meat from the bones and discard the bones and skin. Cut the meat into bite-size pieces.

Make the roux as directed, cooking it until is copper-colored. Turn off the heat, add the diced onions, bell peppers, and celery, and stir for about 5 minutes, until the vegetables are wilted. Next add the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, bay leaf, thyme, oregano, cayenne, and white pepper to the roux and stir to blend.

Bring the reserved stock to a full rolling boil and slowly whisk the roux, a little at a time, into the stock, making sure there are no lumps. Cook over medium heat for 30 minutes. Add the duck meat and continue to cook for another 30 minutes. Season with salt and black pepper. The gumbo should be fairly thick.

To serve, mound 1/2 cup rice in the middle of each warmed bowl. Using a slotted spoon, divide the meat among the bowls. Ladle about 2 cups of the gumbo around the rice in each bowl. Put a sweet potato round in each bowl. Serve with filé powder and more Tabasco sauce on the side.

Cajun Seasoning (from Texas Eats)

Tony Chachere’s is the most famous Louisiana seasoning, but its main ingredient is salt– it also contains MSG. There are dozens of other brands including big names like Paul Prudhomme’s, Zatarain’s and Luzianne and lesser-known labels like Cajun King. Cajun Boy, Cajun Chef and Cajun Country.

Jim Gossen uses Guidroz’s seasoning blend—he buys it in gallon jars at a little grocery store in Lafayette called Guidroz’s Food Center (1301 E Simcoe St, Lafayette, LA 70501). If you want to buy a popular seasoning blend at the store or by mail order, Jim Gossen recommends “Slap Yo’ Mama,” which doesn’t have MSG.

Or here’s a Cajun seasoning blend you make yourself.

Yields a little under 2 cups

6 tablespoons paprika
6 tablespoons seasalt
4 tablespoons garlic powder
2 tablespoons finely ground black pepper
2 tablespoons onion powder
2 tablespoons dry ground cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons dry ground oregano
2 tablespoons dry ground thyme

Roux (from Texas Eats)

When Jim Gossen makes copper-colored roux, he puts a dull penny on the stovetop to use as a reference.

Yields three quarters of a cup

Half cup all-purpose flour

Three quarters of a cup corn oil

In a cast iron skillet over medium-high heat, add the corn oil and flour and heat until fragrant. Using a flat-headed wooded spoon or a whisk, stir the mixture constantly, scraping the bottom of the skillet. When it begins to brown, turn the heat down a little. Continue reducing the heat as you get closer to the color you are trying to reach.

Some recipes call for peanut butter-colored roux, some call for a copper-colored roux, some call for a dark brown roux. When you get the flour to the desired color, turn off the heat, but keep stirring. If the recipe calls for chopped vegetables to be added to the roux, add them at this point.

Or you can keep stirring the roux until it is completely cooled. Add the roux carefully to gumbo or etouffe to prevent separating. Read the recipe before adding the roux.

Note: If the flour sticks to the pan and you see black flecks as you stir, you have burnt the roux. Throw it away and start over.

Houston Ramen: Waiting for Goro

robbwalsh — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 14:01:16 +0000

Soma's Kaisen ramen

Goro ought to be here anytime now. While waiting, I sampled some ramen from other spots around Houston. In July 2011, the Modular food truck and Soma, the Japanese restaurant on Washington had a ramen throw-down. Some might say Soma chef Jason Hauk cheated by serving foie gras ramen with black truffles, but I say all’s fair in a ramen war. Hauk also served seafood ramen. Chef Hauk left Soma for greener pastures not long after the ramen battle, but Soma’s menu still features two seafood ramens.

The “Kaisen ramen” served at lunch starts with a bisque base–I am sure a sushi bar has plenty of quality fish scraps for this purpose. The other ingredients besides noodles include coconut, corn, rock shrimp, bay scallops, lumb crab, the sweet seaweed called wakame and a lot chewy mushrooms. The soup has a delightfully powerful marine aroma with plenty of earthy mushroom scents and something a touch smoky. About halfway through the bowl, I added some Japanese togarashi (red pepper) powder because I am flawed that way. For $11, it was helluva lunch. The $17 “Seafood ramen” served for dinner at Soma is more of a ramen “boullabaisse” with U-10 scallops and mussels.

Pork chop ramen

My curiosity about tonkatsu (pork chop) ramen led me to make the horrible mistake of ordering the spicy ramen with pork chops and kimchi at the frequently panned pan-Asian House of Bowls on Corporate. What I got was a bowl of overcooked spaghetti noodles in a bowl of broth that tasted like Campbell’s chicken noodle with a pork chop and some kimchi on the side. When I asked why it was called “spicy ramen” I was given a bowl of chile powder to make it “as spicy as I liked.”

I have had instant ramen from a plastic package that tasted better than this one.

A Japanese ramen shop owner talks about his life in the noodle trade:

Pickled Daikon: Meat’s Perfect Pal

robbwalsh — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 19:49:10 +0000

We got them radishes all day, son!

By guest blogger Katie Walsh

I spent some time in Houston with my dad On A Meat Mission, to learn about meat and how it’s cooked. Over the next several weeks we’ll be sharing recipes and tales from our meaty adventures.

Strangely enough, the first step on our meat program was pickling daikon. Dad has a small, raised-bed organic garden in back of the house that was overflowing with daikon radishes. (Thanks to gardening guru Jim Sherman for suggesting that we plant daikon this year!)

Inspired by the julienned pickled daikon served on Vietnamese bánh mì sandwiches, Dad had experimented with several recipes. The most successful were radishes cut into thin coins. He said he asked Kelly (my step-mom) to taste them and she proceeded to kill a whole jar in one sitting. They rock.

We’d planned on making a venison pâté, and thought that daikon pickles would taste great with it. Plus those babies were just dying to be harvested. First ya pull ‘em out. Grab down by the base, near the ground.

Now that's a dirty daikon.

Then ya wash ‘em off. We had a big bowl of water we dunked them into. Cut the tops off, give ‘em one more rinse and throw them in a clean bowl.

Now it’s time to put ‘em up.

There were two kinds of pickled daikon we wanted to make, both using a sprinkling of carrot for color and variety. The first is one we adapted from Tyler Florence, with a kind of a sweet-and-salty brine that uses turmeric to give the pickles a nice caramely color.

We also wanted to make a jar or two in the Do Chua style, which is the kind they serve in those Vietnamese sandwich shops we love so well. The main differences between the two are that the Do Chua brine isn’t as sweet and doesn’t use any coloring agent, so the pickles come out crystal clear. Do Chua-style pickles are also typically matchsticks rather than coins. Here’s how ours came out:

We used more carrot than our recipe calls for—yours won't be quite this carrotastic.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first, make the brine, so that the ingredients have time to dissolve and steep while you prepare your veggies. Scroll down for recipes.

These pickles are technically fridge pickles (made with a vinegar brine, refrigerated and ready within 24 hours), so you don’t have to go through all of the proper canning steps if you so choose. Since we wanted to give some of ours away to friends, we real-deal canned ‘em. If you’d like to do the same, you’ll also need to start sterilizing your jars and lids at this point and get a big pot of water boiling.

Next, chop or slice as desired. We used a julienne peeler for the Do Chua pickles and a mandolin to slice the rest into thin coins (about 1/8-inch).

Put them in a colander nested into a large bowl and salt generously. Toss. Allow them to weep for 1 hour, then discard the liquid and rinse well (we actually forgot to rinse, so ours were extra salty, but still not TOO salty. So no harm no foul if you skip this step).

Pack your veggies into jars, throwing a carrot slice in here and there for visual variety. Leave about a half inch of headspace so there’s plenty of room for the brine to seep in, but make sure to really pack the radish and carrot slices in there so they don’t float up to the top.

It helped me to look at the outside of the jar as I went and make sure there were no big gaps. Slide slices down the side of the jar to really fill that outer edge.

We did most of our pickles in small, 4-ounce jelly jars, which only took one layer of veggies to fill up. We added 5 whole peppercorns per 4 ounces (so these guys got 5 total).

We also did a few taller, 8-ounce jelly jars. For those, we packed in two layers of veggie slices, with 5 peppercorns sprinkled on top of each (so 10 total).

Next, you fill ‘em up with brine.

Then comes the canning fun. Little sister Ava so graciously helped me with this part, using the magnetic wand to pluck the hot, sterile lids out of the water. I screwed them on (just fingertip tight!) and lifted them into the pot of gently boiling water. She took this picture of me in action (pretty good for a 6-year-old, eh?).

...and I do mean action! I didn’t grab the jar quite right and you can see it starting to slip. Oops!

Let them process for 10 minutes, then carefully lift them out and onto a rag or dish towel to drip dry. You’ll hear that sweet little “pop!” when the lids are sealed.

All our pickles in a row (or two or three).

These pickles are ready to eat within 24 hours, but they definitely improve in flavor the longer they sit—I’d say about a week to really taste great. You can keep them in the fridge for several weeks (Florence’s recipe says 2, but I think it’s actually closer to a month).

You’ll probably have some brine left over. You can add it to salad dressings, hot sauces, etc. Dad used some to make a batch of his Sriracha-style fermented pepper sauce, and all I have to say about that is woo-doggy!!!

Recipe: Sweet-and-Salty Pickled Daikon

Inspired by Tyler Florence

Yield: About 88 ounces (or 11 8-ounce jars of pickles)

Cook time: About 3 hours

Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups rice vinegar
2 1/2 cups water
2 1/2 cups sugar
3/4 cup kosher salt
3/4 teaspoon turmeric
2 pounds daikon radish, peeled and sliced into 1/8-inch coins
1/2 pound carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/8-inch coins
Whole peppercorns

Make the brine. Combine vinegar and water in a medium pot over medium and allow to heat until warm to the touch. Add sugar, salt, and turmeric and stir well to dissolve. Remove from heat.

For true canning, sterilize jars and lids by running through the dishwasher, boiling for 10 minutes or holding in a 275˚F oven for 20 minutes. Afterwards, handle with washed hands or a clean dish towel. Start a large pot of water (big enough to submerge your jars) boiling.

For fridge canning (which does not require sealing), it is still advisable to sterilize your jars and lids. Your pickles will last longer and be less susceptible to molding/turning this way.

Combine daikon and carrot slices in a colander nested into a large bowl and salt generously. Toss to coat, then allow to weep for 1 hour. Discard liquid and rinse veggies with cold water. Shake off excess water.

Pack daikon and carrot slices into jars, taking care to leave about 1/2 inch of headspace while firmly filling the bottom of the jar (if there’s too much wiggle room, the slices will float to the top when you add your brine. Not a deal-breaker, just kind of annoying and not as pretty). Add one slice of carrot for every few chunks of daikon slices, dispersing randomly for visual variety.

Sprinkle in about 5 whole peppercorns per 4 ounces of jar space. If you’re using a 4-ounce jelly jar, you’ll pack in one layer of veggie slices and 5 peppercorns. For an 8-ounce jar, pack in one layer of slices, add 5 peppercorns, then repeat for two total layers and 10 total peppercorns. Extrapolate as needed.

Pour brine into each jar, filling most of the way and leaving just about 1/4 inch of headspace. You will likely have some leftover brine (save it for later!).

For fridge canning, screw on lids and refrigerate for at least 24 hours before eating. Can keep for up to one month in the fridge (but good luck not eating them all before then!).

For true canning, twist lids on just fingertip tight (screwing just as much as you can with your fingers, without turning your wrist) and carefully lift into boiling water. Allow to process for 10 minutes, then remove and allow to drip dry on a rag or dish towel. Pickles are done canning when you hear the lids pop!

Properly canned pickles are shelf-stable indefinitely but can also be refrigerated. Non-refrigerated pickles will soften over time.

Recipe: Do Chua-Style Pickled Daikon

Inspired by Elise Bauer

Yield: 64 ounces (or 2 quarts)

Cook time: About 2 hours

Ingredients:
2 cups rice vinegar
2 cups water
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup kosher salt
2 pounds daikon radish, peeled and julienned
1/2 pound carrots, peeled and julienned

Make the brine. Combine vinegar and water in a medium pot over medium and allow to heat until warm to the touch. Add sugar and salt and stir well to dissolve. Remove from heat.

For fridge canning (which does not require sealing), it is still advisable to sterilize your jars and lids. Your pickles will last longer and be less susceptible to molding/turning this way.

Combine julienned daikon and carrot in a colander nested into a large bowl and salt generously. Toss to coat, then allow to weep for 1 hour. Discard liquid and rinse veggies with cold water. Shake off excess water.

Pack veggies into 2 quart jars (or any variation thereof). Pour brine into each jar, filling most of the way and leaving just about 1/4 inch of headspace. You will likely have some leftover brine (save it for later!).

For fridge canning, screw on lids and refrigerate for at least 24 hours before eating. Can keep for up to one month in the fridge (but good luck not eating them all before then!).

Properly canned pickles are shelf-stable indefinitely but can also be refrigerated. Non-refrigerated pickles will soften over time.