Nut Free

The journey of French rémoulade sauce, a classic mustardy mayonnaise with herbs, capers, and gherkins, across the Atlantic Ocean to Acadia (now eastern Quebec), the Maritime provinces, parts of New England, and eventually on to the American South is a culinary story worth telling. In the early 1600s, the first French arrived in Acadia and took up a life of farming crops and raising livestock. A century and a half later, many descendants of those early Acadians were forced from their northern homes by the British, eventually winding up in South Carolina, Georgia, and Louisiana. Those who settled in Louisiana soon came to be called Cajuns, as did their language, a lilting patois unique to the area but universally understood in their joyous music. And rémoulade? Unfortunately, there is no accessible literature that describes how the sauce was interpreted on Acadian tables. However, as it wended its way to Louisiana, via the American Northeast and the French Indies, it underwent a gastronomic evolution, becoming more spirited with additions of minced bell pepper and celery, tomato paste, sometimes Worcestershire sauce, horseradish, and especially Louisiana’s own feisty Tabasco sauce. Here is my interpretation of that well-traveled sauce, now a Cajun rémoulade, served on a New Orleans plate with crab cakes and Creole sausage.

Duck was frequently on my menu when I was chef in the earliest days at what was to become the internationally acclaimed Chez Panisse Restaurant in Berkeley, California. I purchased the ducks whole, with heads and feet still on, in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It was always a chore to find a place to park, but I was intent on fresh-is-best even back then, plus the people and markets provided a wonderful ethnographic adventure close to home. Searching for something to do with the many necks left from cutting up the ducks, I created this duck sausage using the necks as casing. I made a broth from the bones and other trimmed bits and braised the sausages in it. Serendipity! The lengthy braising softens the skin casing almost to butter, moistening the sausages as they cook and producing a rich sauce for dressing the sausages when they are served. For this book, I have adapted the recipe to call for whole duck legs (drumstick and thigh combinations): easier to get and equally fabulous.

Cod, as food historian Mark Kurlansky convincingly purports in his fascinating exegesis on its commercial history, is “the fish that changed the world.” Evidence exists that commerce in cod was founded in the tenth century by seafaring Vikings who, seeking new fishing grounds when their homeland supply was depleted for the season, came upon Newfoundland and its cod bounty, establishing a trade route between the Old World and what was called the New World. In time, cod commerce gave rise to emigration and engendered settlements, eventually towns, along the northern Atlantic seaboard. Naturally, the first settlers in that harsh environment created food based on what was available: cod. Although much of it was preserved with salt to use at home and to ship across the Atlantic to the waiting market there, some was used fresh, especially in chowder. In this version, the cod is fashioned into a sausagelike mixture and formed into balls, which are joined in the soup pot by another popular local catch, shrimp. Northeast fishermen harvest the pink, intensely flavored Northern shrimp, also known as Maine shrimp, which are available only from winter through early spring. But almost any medium shrimp can substitute, as long as they are from North American waters.

Portugal lies on the Iberian Peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and Spain, and many of its culinary inspirations pull from both those places. In the province of Alentejo in southern Portugal, a combination of pork and clams expresses the inherent poetry of this duality. Ruddy with paprika, fragrant with garlic, and redolent of salt air, it is an exotic, compelling dish in which land meets sea in a bowl. The Portuguese are so fond of it that it is exported with them anywhere they settle, including New Bedford, Massachusetts, where it is served with corn on the cob. The dish is traditionally made with pork meat, cubed, spiced, and marinated overnight. I have simplified the recipe by using chorizo for the pork. It provides the same spiciness and color while eliminating a lengthy step.

Paella is one of the great composed rice dishes of the world. Many regions in Spain boast of serving the “finest” rendition, but Valencia, its original home, claims the blue ribbon. Many tourist guides acquiesce. Located close by the sea, the city provides its cooks with a daily supply of fresh seafood. Squid, which blackens the rice with its ink, and mussels are abundant and have become key elements in paella valenciana, along with snails and green beans. That repertoire has been expanded to include a selection of chicken or rabbit pieces; small sausages; other shellfish, such as shrimp, crayfish, or cockles; and other vegetables, such as red bell pepper or artichoke, though not all at once. I like to use shrimp in the shell, but if you don’t think your guests will want to peel their own shrimp, you can cook them as directed, then peel them before returning them to the pan. Paella is traditionally cooked over a charcoal fire in a large, wide, two-handled shallow pan called a paellera. As is common in many Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cultures in which dishes, such as shish kebab and gyros, are cooked over an open fire, the paella cooks are traditionally men because the men own fire. Nowadays, the paellera is more often used indoors, and women as well as men cook the dish. It is always a festive offering, worthy of a get-together of any size, indoors or out. No matter who is cooking, the key to a successful paella is the rice. It must be Spanish or Italian short grain.

A ballotine is a boneless cut of any meat, fowl, or fish, stuffed and wrapped into a bundle and braised. It is like a miniature galantine, except that a galantine is a more elaborate preparation involving the whole beast, or like a roulade, which is a simpler preparation of a piece of meat pounded thin and wrapped around something. All are a form of sausage, and the stuffing can be almost anything edible. Here, the wrap is chicken breast and the something is ham sausage. You might think of it as a sausage with a sausage filling. Fancy though it might sound, its preparation is not difficult, and the outcome is decidedly elegant. Because this is a dish where the chicken takes a lead roll, it is important to have the best-tasting chicken available: organic and with a fatty skin still on the breast. It’s the skin that makes the sausage unctuous. The cheesecloth wrap ensures that the breast remains moist throughout as it braises. I serve the ballotine warm for a main dish with the braising liquid reduced to a sauce. I also serve it chilled as an appetizer. To serve chilled, refrigerate the ballotine overnight still wrapped in cheesecloth. The next day, remove the wrap, slice thinly, and arrange on a platter. Accompany with cornichons, Dijon mustard, and baguette slices.

I first tasted this delight of Asian cooking in 1971, at The Mandarin, Cecilia Chiang’s celebrated fine-dining restaurant in San Francisco’s Ghirardelli Square. It was made with squab, rather than the more standard chicken. At the time, it was an anomaly, and an eye-opener to me about a rich and varied pan-Asian fare that I was just beginning to encounter. Since then, culinary relatives of that Chinese classic have become looked-for menu choices in the Thai, Lao, and Vietnamese restaurants that pepper American neighborhoods. The Southeast Asian versions, called laab, laap, larb, or larp, depending on who’s doing the translating, are basically refreshing sausage salads, sometimes made with pork, suitable for an appetizer or a meal, depending on how you want to serve them. They’re a cinch to make at home. Ground chicken works fine if you are not inclined to mince the meat with a chef’s knife. The advantage of the latter is that the sausage has a more defined texture. The roasted rice powder is an almost-secret treasure of Southeast Asian cuisine. It keeps its fragrance and savor for weeks, waiting in the cupboard for when you would like a dash of something different, subtle and nutty, on top of almost anything.

Uncomplicated, straight from the heart of the cook to the mouth and belly of the diner via the stove, a bowl of matzo balls in chicken soup is a sure-bet comfort food. With chicken in the matzo balls and the homemade “twice-cooked” broth, that simple bowl of comfort food becomes a substantial meal. It is a good idea to make the broth and meatball mixture the day before, so that when you’re ready to eat, there’s not a long wait. Also, that way you can use the fat that congeals on top of the broth, the schmaltz, in place of butter in the matzo balls.

I adore pearl barley, yet seldom remember to cook it. But at least once a year, in late spring leaning toward summer, when the weather is still chilly, I suddenly have a notion to make Scotch broth. It is essentially a homespun celebration of root vegetables bolstered by and enriched with lamb. The usual vegetable selection includes leeks, carrots, turnips, rutabagas, kohlrabies, and parsnips. Hamburg parsley, which is grown for its root rather than its leaves and is popular in northern European cooking, is also a good addition, adding herbal appeal. Unfortunately, it is so far not widely available in U.S. markets, but a garnish of fresh parsley nicely fills the herbal niche. Lamb neck and bone-in shoulder chops, the customary cuts for Scotch broth, create a meat broth as the soup cooks. Here, I turn the lamb into sausage and use a quick and convenient-to-make vegetable broth. That way the meat is thriftily stretched while still providing its depth of flavor to the soup. I add a tablespoon of tomato paste for color and a hint of acid: perhaps a shocking sidestep to staunch traditionalists, but I think the soup appreciates it.

Crépinettes get their name from the veil fat that is used to wrap them. They were a classic at Pigby-the-Tail, one of the most requested of our sausages for uncountable neighborhood and family potlucks and summer grilling parties. It’s no wonder. A crépinette patty wrapped in its transparent caul with a whole basil leaf showing through is a thing of beauty. Caul fat is difficult to find, though that is changing with the renewed interest in charcuterie (see page 154). If you prefer to keep it simple, here is the modified recipe, caul optional. Made without caul, the crépinettes are equally delicious, though somewhat less mysterious without the umami the caul provides, and the lovely look is simulated by pressing a basil leaf on top of the patty just after cooking.

Shepherd’s pie is a signature dish in the pubs of England and Ireland, sometimes made with lamb, as here, and sometimes with beef, in which case it is called cottage pie. The idea is the same: a simple meat pie made with a mirepoix—onion, carrot, celery—under a top crust of mashed potatoes. There’s no cheese in the mashed potatoes, but when the pie is baked, the crust is somehow enriched through the alchemy of cooking and tastes as though there were. Shepherd’s pie is usually made with leftover cooked lamb. Swapping that for quick and easy homemade lamb sausage is my revisionism, to give the humble pie a fresh and lively taste. Also, to gussy it up, I use tiny pearl onions so the onion element has a more defined presence in the pie. The horseradish is also my whim, to give the dish an acrid lilt that helps lift it above what might otherwise be humdrum fare. Fresh horseradish root is often available in produce stores and supermarkets around Passover for Jewish customers; wasabi root, though not exactly the same botanically, is similar and it is available around the New Year for Japanese customers. Like fresh ginger, horseradish root can be stored in the refrigerator almost indefinitely, as long as it is kept dry.

The highland sheep of Scotland and Ireland graze in rugged terrain with sparse vegetation. Fittingly, the seasoning for a lamb sausage one might find in those northern isles is somewhat understated. A few well-chosen aromatics, along with salt and pepper, suffice to make a tasty sausage that evokes that landscape and its restrained fare.

When chorizo crossed the Straits of Gibraltar from Spain to North Africa, the meat of it, pork, was swapped for lamb. The mostly Muslim North Africans don’t eat pork. The feisty essence of chorizo was not lost in the translation, however: the seasonings remained pretty much the same, with regional and personal variations, as always. A touch of cinnamon here, dried whole red chiles instead of milder ground paprika, maybe some cumin, maybe not, and always garlic. On either side of the straits, it’s a vivacious sausage to use in dishes that want definite sausage input. Here is the lamb version called merguez; for the pork version, see page 24.

The Vendy Awards began in 2004 as a benefit to raise funds for New York street food vendors who were struggling to establish their right to operate in the city. The issue in dispute was that the city wanted to tax the street vendors even though they didn’t operate from brick-and-mortar venues. (The issue of who has to pay tax to whom is, of course, age-old.) Fortunately, it was finally settled, and the awards became an annual New York City celebration of street food, with an informal competition for best stand decided by popular vote. On a given day in early autumn, vendors from all around the city assemble in a park (a different one each year) and proffer their take-away delights to an ever-growing number of fans. The flavors and aromas of Pakistani and Indian cooking aced the show three out of four times, sort of: In 2006, Sammy the Halal Man won the prize for his Pakistani chicken and rice biriyani. In 2007, the Dosa Man won for his vegan dosa. In 2008, though the Calexico burrito and taco vendor won the juried prize, the popular vote went to Biriyani Cart’s Meru Sikder for his Bangladeshi lamb and rice dish. In other words, the populist Vendys confirm the wide appeal of foods from countries along the ancient spice route. Note: You can also serve the meatballs and topping and garnish elements as a biriyani dish, over steamed basmati rice rather than folded into a flatbread.

Although I’ve never been to Singapore, preparing this dish leads me there in fantasy. Heady with the fragrance and the flavors of India and Malaysia—cumin, fennel seeds, curry powder—and punctuated with coconut milk and almond, it parlays into a perfect balance of hot, sweet, salty, and sour. The touch of fresh lime juice for the sour element points toward the Southeast Asian contribution in a crossroads cuisine that translates smoothly to American kitchens.

Lamb sausage spiked with pine nuts and raisins, masterful fare from Turkey found around the Mediterranean, is exactly right for a summer grill party. The figs and fennel practically insist on being combined into a marmalade to accompany the lusty sausage. It can also be used as a compote for pork or chicken dishes or as a topping for toast or scones. If you happen to have a fig tree, or know someone who does, use its leaves to wrap the sausage. They impart an aroma and flavor of cinnamon that greatly enhances the lamb and evokes the Garden of Eden, after the Fall.

This lamb, green bean, and tomato soup-stew, known as fasoulia in the home of my childhood, was the by-product of a regular event: my father dissecting a leg of lamb into its parts, from the most highly treasured, neatly cubed pieces for shish kebab to the fattier but still tender parts for grinding into sausage. A sidebar of the ritual was putting the bone and all the gristly bits into a pot, covering them with water, and gently simmering them into a broth for fasoulia. Even though the dish was a by-product of making shish kebab, it enjoyed a humble stature on our dinner table. These days when I desire a taste of lamb home cooking and am not deconstructing a leg of lamb, I use a bit of purchased ground lamb for meatballs. The green beans are key here, and though I usually turn up my nose at frozen vegetables, I make an exception for fasoulia, so that it can be enjoyed throughout the year. I find this soup-stew doesn’t need anything in the way of a side dish. A slice of bread, a spoon, and family company suffice, but Armenians would include pilaf on the side.

Nowadays, dolmas are standard fare throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Caucasus. But it is interesting to ponder how they became so in ancient lands that never had New World ingredients until seafarers carried them to the Old World on their return journeys. To complicate the story, they put ashore in Atlantic ports, so it was still a long trek to get to the eastern Mediterranean. Nonetheless, they did, once again demonstrating the scope and power of food as a pathway of global interconnections. Adding a bed of potatoes as infrastructure in this dolma is a particularly Greek touch, and a good one. The potatoes soak up the juices rendered as the vegetables cook and collapse into them, making a crude sauce on the bottom of the dish. I prefer green bell peppers, but it seems these days red bells are equally, if not more, favored, so I make a mix of them, including some yellow and orange ones that add sunny color to the array.

My love of rice paper began in childhood with candies that came packaged in colorful boxes, mostly pinkish and with children pictured gleefully jumping. Inside were gummy candies, chewable like jujubes, only softer. The fun part was unwrapping the outer paper and getting to the inside wrapping. At first it seemed like another layer of paper, a bit stiff like cellophane. But then you would pop the candy into your mouth and let the wrapping hydrate until soft enough to chew. I always found it a thrill “eating” my way from seemingly inedible paper to edible candy. So it is with rice paper wrappers for Vietnamese spring rolls” What seems at first glance a large plastic disk not for consumption, with hydration becomes supple enough to enfold all manner of comestibles.

A constant—an icon—of my Armenian American childhood were grape leaves, cabbage leaves, bell peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes wrapped around or stuffed with lamb and rice sausage. My mother, a native of the American Southwest, married my father, an Armenian who enjoyed the honor of being the first of his direct family line to be born in the United States. So, in our family it was he who carried forward the Armenian tradition of lamb at table. That was not difficult for my mother to accommodate: her father was a rancher who raised sheep from time to time. In other words, lamb was a food that my parents easily shared through their more than half century of marriage. Interestingly, though the sausage stuffing was the same whether it was tucked into grape leaves, cabbage leaves, or vegetables, there was a name distinction: wrapped in leaves, the dish was called sarma, but stuffed into vegetables, it was dolma. Dolmas and sarma made with cabbage leaves were considered family fare, and they were a dinner staple in our household. Stuffed grape leaves, which require more time and earnest effort, were festive fare, so they were saved for family get-togethers or special birthday requests (mine in particular). For how to blanch and separate the leaves for making stuffed cabbage leaves, see page 151.