Two delicious: Pan-grilled fish, soba noodle salad

Last week, I posted two recipes for cooking fish that ranged from simple to simpler. I kept them simple because I didn’t want anything masking the taste of the Hawaiian yellowtail I’d been asked to try by Kona Blue Water Farms. This week, two more recipes. First, Marion shows just how well this fish plays with other flavors. Then she streamlines a complex side dish into something quick, simple and simply delicious.

Terry and I both love to cook, but our tastes in cookbooks and food authors don’t particularly overlap. He avidly reads Anthony Bourdain; I go for obsessive re-readings of M.F.K. Fisher. His cookbook tastes run to the school of It’s Better If It’s French. My favorite cookbook is an obscure, grubby, out-of-print one about Szechwan food.

So we think it’s pretty interesting that, when Terry received that lovely shipment of Hawaiian yellowtail, we each, independently, turned to the same author. Ming Tsai—chef, restaurateur, star of two televised cooking shows and author of some very nice cookbooks—really has been our guide in understanding this amazing fish. When it was my turn in the kitchen, I found a pair of recipes in Ming’s Blue Ginger: East Meets West Cooking with Ming Tsai that became the foundation for a meal.

By the way, this morning a friend called and asked me what this fish tastes like. It tastes like standing on the edge of a high bluff looking straight out over the open Pacific, with the surface of the water like light beaten silver, and a faint cold morning wind washing over your face, and the wind has come four thousand uninterrupted miles straight to find you. It’s that clean and beautiful and pure.

The original and very delightful version of this recipe calls for ponzu sauce and snapper, and the fish, once cooked, goes on to become part of a salad with pea sprouts and a Dijon vinaigrette. Here is my foreshortened, non-salad take, abbreviated into a simple grilled dish. This recipe goes quickly once you begin it. Make sure your side dishes are in progress before you start on this.

Salad days for peaches

Peaches and I haven’t always been on the best of terms. In fact, I’ll go entire seasons without buying a single one. First, there’s the way they often go directly from being hard as baseballs to mold-covered science experiments, with no apparent moment of just being ripe and ready to eat in between. And even when they do begrudgingly ripen, there’s often something bland or mealy or otherwise disappointing about the taste.

And then there was the tree. When Marion and I bought an old house in St. Louis, the backyard came equipped with a large, ancient peach tree. It provided a shady spot in the yard and a little extra privacy from the house directly across the alley. We looked forward to eating fruit from our very own tree.

Unfortunately, as with many old fruit trees, it had become diseased. Every summer, it faithfully produced bushel upon bushel of peaches, none of them edible. They would drop to the ground, already rotting, creating a fragrant mess on the lawn. No matter how carefully I picked them up before mowing, the mower would invariably find at least one I’d missed. Every bit as pleasant as it sounds.

And then there were the drunken wasps. Or bees or whatever. Attracted by the rotting, fermenting fruit, hundreds of them would swarm loopily around the tree and the lawn, eating the spoiled fruit and becoming completely intoxicated and lethargic. And the problem was, you never knew if they were going to be happy drunks or mean ones.

Each season, sections of the tree would die off, and we would cut away those parts. Gradually, we whittled it down to something we could entirely cut down. That was one of my happiest days as a homeowner.

This year, though, the peaches are amazing. They’ve broken my heart so many times in the past that I usually just walk right by them in the produce department. But this year I couldn’t. Their deep, beautiful color beckoned, even from a distance. Up close, their heady perfume held promise. I picked one up. Not hard as a baseball—just nice and firm and, well, ripe. So I bought some, hopeful but still ready to be disappointed. They. Were. Incredible. Delicious and sweet, with a big peach flavor and a nice, not-too-mushy texture. And the ones that were maybe a day or so away from ripeness obediently ripened without rotting.

Since that first test batch, I’ve been buying them like they’re going out of style. Which, of course, they are—summer won’t last forever. Besides eating them straight, we’ve been cutting them up on cereal, mixing them with plain yogurt, adding them to fruit salads and constantly looking for new ways to use them. Which led to this salad.

Garlicky vinaigrette and a three-legged beagle

Last week, I talked a little about our weekend road trip to St. Louis. I’m keeping that St. Louis theme going this week.

All of us who love to cook can think of certain “Aha!” moments in our culinary lives. Moments when we’ve learned some new technique or connected a couple of dots and suddenly know something that changes how we cook or how we think about food or, as in the case of this simple vinaigrette, adds a lasting weapon to our food arsenal.

This “Aha!” moment happened at the kitchen table of an old French woman, “Aunt” Jo, one Thanksgiving in St. Louis years ago. I used the quotes around Aunt [and I'll dispense with them from here on out] because she wasn’t really a relative, but a friend of the family of such long standing that aunthood had been conferred upon her.

Josephine—Aunt Jo—had come from France in her early 20s [she was well into her 80s by this particular Thanksgiving]. She and her husband had run the Parisian Hand Laundry at the edge of the city’s then posh West End, on Delmar Boulevard. For much of the time they had run the business, that section of St. Louis was home to Washington University professors and old money and was swell enough to support such a lovely, labor-intensive business.

They lived in a beautiful apartment above the laundry. Even back then, I realized what a sophisticated and utterly urban home it was. Big and rambling, with dark woodwork, glass French doors dividing rooms and a handsome, massive [but squared and sleek] couch that ruled the living room. Looking back now, I also realize that the apartment was very Paris.

A little aside here. As suburban sprawl continues to reshape and redefine American life, forward thinking urban planners have been looking to this urban mixed-use model to create a sense of community and life in suburban communities. This approach is called New Urbanism and was pioneered by urban planners Duany Plater-Zyberk & Company [thanks, Claire!]. Increasingly, suburban communities are either revitalizing existing small downtowns or “Main Streets” or building them from scratch. The approach includes putting residential space over storefronts, banishing parking to the back or in central garages and encouraging pedestrianism [as one site calls it] and the kind of life and critical mass you find in urban areas. To me, it feels a little manufactured—not unlike Epcot Center’s take on Europe—but it still beats the hell out of the relentless march of strip malls across the landscape. But I digress.

By the time the aforementioned Thanksgiving had rolled around, Aunt Jo’s husband was long dead [I had never known him] and the neighborhood had become rather sketchy. There was still enough gentility to keep the laundry going at that time—and Aunt Jo ran it with an iron fist even then—but its days were numbered.

Aunt Jo’s main companion at this point was her dog, a beagle named Jean Pierre. Jean Pierre only responded to French commands—“Asseyez-vous, Jean Pierre” and he would sit. Jean Pierre had come equipped with the standard set of four legs, but one evening as Aunt Jo was out walking him, he caught a stray bullet in a hind leg, a victim of crossfire from some gang-related shooting. After the surgery, he was left with three legs. He still got around fine, but had issues scratching his left side.

Back to the Thanksgiving in question [I do love to ramble, don't I?]. I had tired of scratching Jean Pierre’s left side [even though he had not tired of me doing so] and of the living room conversation, so I wandered into the kitchen. The turkey was in the oven, and various pots on the stove held fragrant sides-in-progress. Aunt Jo bashed a fat garlic clove with the side of a large chef’s knife and squeezed it from its skin into a small bowl. She added a couple of healthy pinches of salt and ground the garlic and the salt together with the tines of an old fork. When she poured some olive oil over the mixture and attacked it again with the fork—Aunt Jo was a tall, formidable woman, not unlike Julia Child [only without the sunny disposition]—I suddenly realized she was making her garlicky vinaigrette. The women of the family all professed their sorrow at being unable to make this sublime, simple dressing themselves, but none of them ever seemed to find the way back to Aunt Jo’s kitchen when she cooked.

Aunt Jo didn’t exactly teach me to make it—it was more that I kind of just picked it up as I sat at the table and watched her. She set the bowl aside and tended to other things in the kitchen. I didn’t know [and never will now] if this was part of the process for her or the other things just needed tending to then. Later, she added some red wine vinegar and a couple of grinds of pepper and whisked it all together. That was it. It then sat on the table, letting the garlic do its work, while the rest of the meal came together.

The next time there was a family meal [sans Aunt Jo], I offered to make a dressing for the salad. Eyebrows were raised—the foodie in me had not yet awakened [well, maybe a little], and bottled dressing was still considered just fine for most occasions. But I nailed it. Around the table, the response was a mix of admiration and irritation [mainly from the women who never made their way back to Aunt Jo's kitchen]. I enjoyed both equally.

A little hot but very cool. Like summer.

What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word summer? Okay, then what’s the next thing? Well then, the thing after that? No, the thing after… oh, never mind. The correct answer is chicken salad.

When the warm weather hits and the great outdoors beckons, we tend to get lazy in the kitchen. We still want good food, but we want it to be fast and easy to make and satisfyingly filling but not too heavy. Like I said, chicken salad. To me, some leftover chicken and a little mayo is one of the great blank canvases of summer, ready to take on all kinds of flavors and personalities. So for all those reasons, this is the first of probably two or three chicken salads I’ll write about before the season ends.

At the heart of this lively version is hot giardiniera, an Italian mix of pickled vegetables. You’ll find it in most supermarkets and some specialty stores. The mix of vegetables varies, but it always includes peppers of some sort. Other usual suspects are carrots, celery, cauliflower or broccoli florets, olives and pearl onions. Giardiniera is generally available in both mild and hot versions, although hot is relative, and we’ve sampled various brands over the years with varying degrees of success. There aren’t many national brands to speak of, so you really just have to try what’s available where you are. If it turns out to be less spicy than you like, adding a pinch of cayenne pepper to your chicken salad will turn up the heat for you. Also, if you have a choice, go for giardiniera that uses a mix of vinegar and water for the liquid, not one that includes olive oil. You’ll get fewer calories and a brighter taste.

And if you can’t find store bought giardiniera anywhere, recipes for making your own abound online. That sounds rather labor intensive to me, but to someone else, it might be a fun project.

I’ve adapted this recipe from one I found in Bon Appetit. It was part of an article on what prominent chefs like to cook at home. For this recipe, it said the chef [Mary---I forget her last name or the restaurant, sorry] uses leftovers from a purchased roast chicken. Not sure where she buys her gargantuan birds, but I used both legs and thighs and one half of the breast of my purchased roast chicken to come up with the 2-1/2 cups of chicken needed. Not exactly what I’d call leftovers.

You can use this chicken salad to make sandwiches, as I’ve done here. Just as often, though, we eat it as is, with no bread. Some fresh fruit or a fruit salad makes a nice side. When we had this over the weekend, Marion made delicious all fruit smoothies as an accompaniment. We felt very healthy and smug eating this lunch. Yeah, it had mayonnaise in it, but not much. Shut up.

Endive, blue cheese: A great salad remembered

First things first. Blue Kitchen is going global this week. Brazilian blogger Patricia has graciously invited me to post a recipe on her baketastic blog Technicolor Kitchen. No, I didn’t bake [and that's not all Patricia does, but when she does, it's always amazing]. I made a flavor-packed, summery pasta dish with Italian tuna and artichoke hearts—all you cook is the pasta. So check out Patricia’s fabulous blog and this easy recipe. After you read the post below, of course.

Sometimes a restaurant just clicks with you. The food, the setting, the staff—even the moment it’s part of. Lucien, in Manhattan’s East Village, is just such a place for us. The moment it fit so neatly into the first time we ate there was the first time Marion and I managed to get to New York together. Marion had spent lots of time there, and I had made a number of three-day solo forays in search of art, jazz and booze [all plentiful there, by the way]. But we only got around to getting there together when I won a trip for two on Taco Bell’s website a few years ago. Seriously.

Last week I talked about printing out reams of recipes from epicurious.com. Well, anytime I plan a trip to New York, several trees die at the hands of my printouts. In my online research for this visit with my bride, I found Lucien. The reviews looked promising, so I called to make a reservation and ended up speaking with the owner himself, Lucien Bahaj. He was charmingly self deprecating when I told him of the glowing reviews I’d read—even a little alarmed—and wanted to make sure I understood that his restaurant was just a little neighborhood bistro. I told him that was exactly what we were looking for.

And it was. Opened in 1998, Lucien has the nicotine patina of an ancient Left Bank establishment. Tile floors, mirrors on the wall, high tin ceiling and a long, dark wood bar add to the narrow storefront’s authentic French feel. And the food is just as comfortingly familiar and authentically executed. Mussels steamed in white wine, escargots, both a foie gras and a paté, steak frites, cassoulet, duck confit… All served at modest prices in a cozy, welcoming place. We try to get there every time we visit now. If we lived in New York, we’d be regulars.

As it is, we’re already treated like regulars. We walked in with our daughter Laurel one night, having last been there a year before. Our waitress from that previous visit, the lovely, multi-tattooed Lola, came up and hugged us and said, “It took you long enough to get back here!” That trip, we ate there twice. And on one of those nights, we shared a delicious salad with Belgian endive, blue cheese and walnuts as one of our starters. Here’s my shot at recreating that salad.