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Heart of the Artichoke and Other Kitchen Journeys

David Tanis

By Jesse Kornbluth
Published: Nov 04, 2010
Category: Food and Wine

My wife used to be Somebody in the New York fine dining world. As for me, one of the only two jobs that’s required my daily presence was as a French chef. But going out to dinner has pretty much disappeared from our lives.  

Our 8.5-year-old is the major reason. She has homework now, and reading, and piano pieces to practice, and although she is the-best-girl-in-the-world, we feel the need to sit with her in the early evening, whip in hand, while she gets it all done. Then there’s the bedtime ritual — my wife delivers a nightly lecture called “Bore Me to Sleep.” By then, it’s nine o’clock. Two hours until Jon Stewart. Haul in a sitter, rush to a restaurant? I think not.  
 
What’s that? At a child-friendly hour, we could take the kid out with us? No, no, no and no. The Princess is in year four or five of a lycopene addiction so severe that her culinary parameters start at pasta and end at pizza — no way is she going to sit in a real restaurant.  And we tire of Sal’s Pizza.
 
So we cook at home. Sometimes for others. Mostly for ourselves.
 
Few cookbooks are of much use to us. They’re too fancy, too formal. They’re too basic, too simple. They’re too regional, too specialized.  
 
David Tanis, in “Heart of the Artichoke,” gets it just right. [To buy it from Amazon, click here.]  He’s the half-time chef at Chez Panisse — he lives in Paris the other six months — and he’s a great representative for Alice Waters. That is, his thing is first-class ingredients, served with one twist — a spice you wouldn’t have thought of, a vegetable others would ignore. The result is familiar and novel, which is très cool. To quote Ms. Waters: “David will give me a menu, and I’ll imagine what it will taste like, and then it’s nothing like what I imagined. That’s the thrill to me."
 
Tanis is well-traveled, and his influences range wide: Mexico, South America, France, Vietnam, Sicily. Indeed, he’s such a citizen of the world that our own cuisine is an acquired taste:
  

When I cook American food, it’s a little like when I conjure up my inner Italian or inner Spaniard — it’s a bit of a masquerade. If I crave American food, I have to go into my pretend-citizen mode. It’s as if I’m doomed to travel the world in search of my real culture. It’s not that I’m not American, it’s that I grew up in Ohio, where there’s no discernible regional cuisine — unless you count funnel cakes. Owing to that particular geographical spot and era, I gained my knowledge of American cooking through other people’s reminiscences. And the occasional foray into James Beard. There’s something odd about having nostalgia for something I never really knew. It wasn’t until I got out into the world that I learned about corn bread and gumbo, Indian pudding, chicken and dumplings, sweet pickles, and fried green tomatoes.

Appreciate the irony: His “American” dishes are more satisfying than those of many American cooks because our cuisine is a midlife enthusiasm. He’s sifted and chosen well — the recipes we like best are native-born, if not exactly unvarnished Americana.
 
And Tanis has sensible values that our can-do pragmatists would admire: “I’m a restaurant chef who has always preferred to cook at home.” What is a home-cooked meal? Sometimes it’s “a plate of potato salad and a beer,” sometimes it’s “much more than that.” In this book, you get the range. First, it’s divided into seasons. And then there are the secondary categories. “Cooking small” (meals when it’s just you). “Medium” (menus for four to six people). And “large” (feasts for crowds). 
 
Tanis has preferences, which he shares in a charming opening section. After a meal, he likes fruit. Cookies? Yes, “but not giant cookies, and not chocolate chip, and not oatmeal.” He travels with key provisions, starting — smartly — with harissa. He craves a ham sandwich, with butter, on a baguette, in a French bar. (He also likes tripe and makes his own chorizo, which is where we part company.)
 
Some of his delightfully twisted recipes: fennel soup, zucchini pancakes, pork — not veal — scaloppini, fried fish with tarragon mayonnaise, broiled pineapple with rum. Many are shown with photographs you’d happily cut out and eat. (No wonder — the photographer is Christopher Hirsheimer, half of the Canal House team.)
 
The recipes make the case for this book better than any praise from me. Try these:
  

Slow-Cooked Carne Adovada

The New Mexican way with pork is a celebration of dried red chiles. Basically, you soften the long, leathery chile peppers by simmering them in a little water, puree them into an intense paste, and smother the meat in this marinade. Then the meat, the picante marinade, and the slow, slow cooking result in the best pulled pork you’ve ever had. Now, I’m not putting down anybody else’s barbecue, and I’m not even saying this is barbecue. This is quite simply the pork of your dreams.
 
Serves 4 to 6
 
6 ounces dried New Mexico red chiles
2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely diced
Salt and pepper
6 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 teaspoon coriander seeds, toasted and ground
1 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground
1 bay leaf
3 pounds boneless pork shoulder, left whole or cut into large chunks
 
Rinse and dry the chiles, then toast them in a dry cast-iron pan over medium heat until they puff a bit and become fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes.
 
Cut the chiles lengthwise in half and remove the stems and seeds.
 
Put the chiles in a small pot of water and bring to a boil. Simmer for about 5 minutes. Let the chiles cool in the liquid.
 
Puree the chiles with a cup of their cooking liquid in a blender until smooth.
 
Heat the lard or oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion, season with salt and pepper, and cook for about 5 minutes. No color, no browning.
 
Add the garlic, coriander, cumin, and bay leaf, then add the chile puree and a little salt and simmer for another 5 minutes.  Cool the mixture.
 
Preheat the oven to 350°F.   Put the pork in a low roasting pan or a heavy bottomed ovenproof pot and season generously with salt and pepper. Pour the chile sauce over the pork and mix well to coat.
 
Cover tightly with a lid or foil. Bake the pork for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until the meat is quite tender and falling apart. (This dish can be made a day or many hours ahead and reheated.) Serve the carne adovada in shallow soup bowls with a big spoonful of hominy.
 
 

Peppery Chicken Wings

There’s something wonderful about a big pile of wings for a casual supper. Remove the wing tips (save them for stock), so that what you’re serving is the meatier part of the wing. You can use the same seasoning and technique for chicken thighs if you prefer.
 
Serves a crowd (or a few wing addicts)
 
5 pounds chicken wings, wing tips removed
Salt and pepper
2 teaspoons ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon cayenne
1 tablespoon sweet paprika
4 garlic cloves, smashed to a paste with a little salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
 
Lay the chicken wings out on a baking sheet and season well with salt and pepper. Transfer the wings to a big mixing bowl, add all the other ingredients, and give the wings a massage. Refrigerate for at least an hour, or as long as overnight.
 
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
 
Put the wings in a roasting pan or baking sheet in one layer. Roast, uncovered, until nicely browned and crisp, about 1 hour. You can eat them hot, at room temperature, or cold.
 
Scalloped Corn

This old-fashioned corn dish combines the appeal of creamed corn with corn pudding.
 
2 tablespoons butter, plus more for buttering the dish and topping
1 small yellow onion, finely diced
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
Pinch of cayenne
1 1/2 cups half-and-half Kernels from 6 ears sweet corn (about 3 cups)
2 egg yolks
1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs
 
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
 
Butter a 10-inch baking dish. Melt the 2 tablespoons butter over medium heat in a medium skillet, and soften the onion with a little salt, about 5 minutes.
 
Sprinkle in the flour, season with salt and pepper and cayenne, and stir well with a wooden spoon.
 
Slowly add the half-and-half and stir well as the sauce thickens.
 
Add the corn kernels and simmer for 2 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Remove from the heat.
 
Beat the egg yolks in a small bowl, and stir into the corn mixture. Pour the corn mixture into the baking dish. Scatter the bread crumbs over the top and dot with butter.
 
Bake for about 30 minutes, or until golden.