In the Hands of a Chef (27 page)

T
omatoes and olives and basil
and anchovies—close your eyes, and the aroma of this dish could fool you into thinking you’re in Provence or Liguria, if only you could identify that toasty, cozy part of the smell. The mystery ingredient is chickpea flour, used to make a polenta called
panisse.
Like the familiar cornmeal polenta, panisse recipes often call for letting the cooked mixture firm up, then frying or baking it, perhaps with a topping of mushrooms or tomatoes.

A
ccording to the National Fisheries
Institute, Americans consume a paltry 15 pounds of seafood a year (compared to 220 pounds of meat and poultry) and the whale’s share of that—about two-thirds—is prepared in restaurants. Subtract the 3½ pounds of canned tuna from the approximately 5 pounds of seafood each of us consumes at home, and there’s hardly enough left over for a decent Friday night dinner of fish and chips.

I suspect that these statistics conceal a far different story, a reality in which there is a vast majority of people who cook no seafood at all, and a small minority who do, and know they’re on to a good thing. These are the people lining up at seafood counters in grocery stores and fishmongers to buy salmon fillets, or tuna steaks, even when those fillets cost roughly double the price of flank steak and fresh tuna’s in the same league as filet mignon. These are the people who get excited when August rolls around, because they know the bluefish will be running. A very few of them actually buy squid and octopus, to the amazement of their friends, while again, the others only wonder, “What do you do with that?” None of these people is eating only 15 pounds of fish a year—they’re eating a lot more. If you recognize yourself in these portraits, this chapter is for you.

Fish (I’m using the term interchangeably with “
seafood
”) is often expensive and tolerates the smallest margin of error of any animal protein in how it’s cooked. The first thing to understand
about seafood is that the texture of any individual type of fish has a lot to say about the method and length of cooking time. Fish with sturdy flesh that holds together can be grilled, pan-seared, fried, or even braised. Thin-filleted white fish like sole demand to be fried. The more delicate the flesh, the lighter the flavor, and the greater the need for your attention. A few minutes of overcooking can turn that fifteen dollars worth of salmon into cat food.

Unlike meat and poultry, whose flavors can often be successfully enhanced (as with marinades) or blended with other ingredients (in long braising), seafood works best when its natural flavors are allowed to shine with minimal interference. I rarely use acidic marinades with fish, and when I do resort to a marinade, it’s usually nothing more than a little oil flavored with fresh herbs. That’s not to say that some fish can’t stand up to spicy flavors, but the seasonings should always work in counterpoint with the flavor and texture, not overwhelm it. Even when I cook fish with other ingredients, as in the braised dishes or any of the fish stews, the flavors don’t blend so much as complement each other.

Always buy bright, fresh seafood and try to cook it within a day of purchase, sooner if possible. When selecting seafood, it should appear moist, and freshly cut or filleted; cut seafood looks dull and blurry after a couple of days. When in doubt, ask to smell it; most fresh seafood has little aroma, except perhaps a slight brininess. Any other odor is a signal to pass.

I
s there a cuisine that
doesn’t have its own brilliant green sauce? There must be some deep-rooted universal appeal in the idea of pureeing fresh herbs or spring greens to make a condiment with a color as vivid as its taste. I always come back to this recipe because the anchovies, lemon, and tarragon steer the cart off the expected track of spinach flavor—and because it creates a vibrant green streak against the rosy center of a tuna steak. Serve this dish with Panisse with Tomatoes and Black Olives (page 176) on the side.

MAKES 4 ENTRÉE SERVINGS

SAUCE

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

3 garlic cloves, minced Kosher salt

3 cups packed spinach leaves trimmed of stems, washed

1 cup flat-leaf parsley leaves

4 scallions, trimmed and sliced paper-thin

1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon 1½ tablespoons capers, rinsed

6 anchovy fillets, rinsed and finely chopped

Freshly ground black pepper

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

TUNA

Four 5-ounce tuna steaks, approximately 1½ inches thick

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons capers, rinsed

4 sprigs flat-leaf parsley

1.
Heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil with the garlic in a small sauté pan over medium heat until aromatic, about 2 minutes. Set aside.

2.
Bring a medium pot of salted water to a boil. Add the spinach, parsley leaves, and scallions and blanch for 2 minutes. Drain, reserving ¼ cup of the blanching water.

3.
Put the warm spinach mixture in a blender with the garlic, tarragon, capers, anchovies, and the reserved blanching water. Purée until smooth and with a sauce consistency; add more water if necessary. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to a small saucepan and keep warm.

4.
Season the tuna with salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the tuna and cook for 3 to 4 minutes on each side, or until a crisp brown crust forms, for rare. If you like your tuna cooked further, reduce the heat to medium and cook for a minute or so longer on each side. Remove from the pan and let rest for 3 minutes before serving.

5.
To serve, slice the tuna pieces in half across the grain, exposing the beautiful center, and arrange on four plates. Add the lemon juice to the sauce and pour next to the fish. (If you add the lemon juice earlier than just before serving, the sauce will turn olive green.) Sprinkle the tuna with the capers and garnish each plate with a sprig of parsley.

I
n the summer, I run
with the crowd when it comes to lobster—steamed or grilled, with lots of butter and lemon—but during the rest of the year I’m open to alternatives. A
salade composée,
the French term for a cold salad plate in which several distinct elements are prepared separately then assembled for the finished dish, is a perfect technique for lobster. Lime vinaigrette lightly dresses the lobster without overwhelming it. The other ingredients maintain a complementary yet respectful distance.

MAKES 4 ENTRÉE SERVINGS

Kosher salt

Two 1- to 1½-pound lobsters (see page 181)

1 teaspoon minced shallots

¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice

½ teaspoon Dijon mustard

¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

½ cup crème fraîche

1 teaspoon grated lime zest

Freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons Pernod

2 tablespoons honey

2 blood oranges, skin and membrane removed, cut into segments over a bowl and stored in their own juice (use other sweet oranges if blood oranges are unavailable)

½ pound fingerling or small Red Bliss potatoes, scrubbed

2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon

3 tablespoons chopped fresh chervil

2 tablespoons minced fresh chives

12 cherry tomatoes or other small sweet tomatoes, cut in half

4 small bunches small greens such as watercress or mâche, washed and dried

1 lime, sliced into 4 wedges

DO AHEAD:
The recipe can be prepared a day ahead up through Step 4. If you’re making this salad with the intention of having leftovers, don’t dress what you won’t serve.

1.
Pour 1 inch of salted water into a large pot, invert a colander in the pot, and bring to a boil. Put the lobsters in the pot and cover tightly. Steam for 5 minutes, then open the pot carefully (steam is
hot)
and, using a pair of tongs, change the lobsters’ position so they will cook evenly. Quickly replace the lid and steam for 5 more minutes. Remove the lobsters from the pot and allow to cool.

2.
Separate the tail, claws, and knuckles from the body of each lobster. Save the bodies for lobster stock or discard. Remove the lobster meat from the shells, trying to keep it in as large pieces as possible. (Shells don’t provide as much flavor for stock as lobster bodies, so I discard them.) Cut the shelled tails in half lengthwise and remove the digestive tract, the dark vein-like structure. Cover and refrigerate the meat.

3.
To make the vinaigrette, whisk the shallots, 1 tablespoon of the lime juice, and the Dijon mustard together in a small bowl. Slowly add ¼ cup of the olive oil in a steady stream. Season with salt.

4.
Mix the crème fraîche with the lime zest, 1 tablespoon of the lime juice, and the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil in a bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Cover and refrigerate.

5.
Mix the Pernod with the honey and pour over the blood orange sections. Let sit for 30 minutes.

6.
While the blood oranges are soaking, cut the potatoes into ½-inch-thick slices. Put the slices in a small saucepan and cover with cold water. Add 1½ teaspoons salt per quart of water. Bring to a boil and simmer until the potatoes are just done, 4 to 5 minutes. Drain. Toss with 2 tablespoons of the lime vinaigrette and set aside to cool at room temperature.

7.
Mix the chopped tarragon, chervil, and chives together.

8.
Right before serving, toss the lobster meat in a bowl with the remaining vinaigrette and 5 tablespoons of the herbs. Mix the potatoes with the remaining chopped herbs. Put 2 tablespoons of the crème fraîche in the center of each of four plates. Overlap the potato slices in a ring on the crème fraîche. Arrange the meat from half a lobster on top of each portion of potatoes—start with the knuckles, then the tail and then the claw (reserve the remaining vinaigrette in the bowl). Form a crescent of 6 tomato halves on one side of the lobster on each plate.

9.
Toss the watercress with the lime vinaigrette left in the lobster bowl. Place a bunch of dressed greens on each plate on the side of the lobster opposite the tomatoes. Distribute the orange segments around the edges of the plates and drizzle with any remaining syrup. Garnish each plate with a wedge of lime, and serve.