Although Bananas Foster is widely known as a New Orleans recipe, I never had any experience with this particular dish while I was cooking in the Crescent City. I dealt with plenty of bread pudding recipes, and I had an occasional hand in the hyper-decadent sweet potato-and-pecan pies at K-Paul’s, but Bananas Foster was never part of my repertoire. However, when I was attending the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park NY, I did have the opportunity to whip up several batches of Bananas Foster while I was [... read more ...]]]>

Set adrift on butter, brown sugar, and rum bliss.

Although Bananas Foster is widely known as a New Orleans recipe, I never had any experience with this particular dish while I was cooking in the Crescent City. I dealt with plenty of bread pudding recipes, and I had an occasional hand in the hyper-decadent sweet potato-and-pecan pies at K-Paul’s, but Bananas Foster was never part of my repertoire. However, when I was attending the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park NY, I did have the opportunity to whip up several batches of Bananas Foster while I was finishing the culinary program. My very last course at the CIA was actually a three-week stint waiting tables at the Escoffier Room, which was the classicly-themed French restaurant on campus (known simply as the “E-Room” among the student population). Frankly, I hated every single day of E-Room service — not being in the kitchen — but stumbling around the dining room, fumbling with the silverware, and saying insipid things in front of the guests.

As it was, I still feel very fortunate to have ended my time at the CIA in the dead of a cold, snowy winter, which meant that the E-Room was relatively quiet, since navigating Route 9 could be awfully treacherous that time of year. But even with scant reservations on the books, I struggled with many aspects of restaurant service. The worst thing, by far, was balancing drinks on trays (top-heavy martini glasses being my greatest nemesis). Despite all of my fears, I never actually dumped a drink on a guest, but I do remember trembling like an idiot whenever I tried to place a brimming martini glass on the table, usually spilling it uncontrollably in the process. Looking back, I’m not sure why this was such an issue for me, but waiting tables had definitely gotten inside my head. I still recall my buddy DK — with whom I was partnered as a back-waiter — just shaking his head at all of my pitiful displays. His disgust was as real as real can get, and I deserved it, every last bit. It’s absolutely hilarious to me now.

One aspect of service that I actually felt a lot more comfortable with was making Bananas Foster as a table-side dessert. Although table-side service did make me the momentary center of attention, to me, it was just cooking, and pretty easy cooking at that (plus, at the end of meal, it was also my last chance for redemption). The reason for preparing Bananas Foster table-side, of course, is the showmanship of the flambé. It could sometimes become pretty interesting in the E-Room, as different classmates vied to produce the biggest ball of fire. If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure that our instructor encouraged this behavior, pointing out that because lunch service offered too much daylight, we should hit the pan with a little extra rum in order produce a more noticeable flame. As the weeks went by, and as graduation neared, we pushed the envelope more and more, and despite the din of service, you could often hear a low and satisfying whoooooooom! as the flames jumped from the pan.

• • •

There is no mystery as to the origin of Bananas Foster, which means that finding the definitive recipe is rather simple. The dessert began in New Orleans in 1951, and it was created by the executive chef at Brennan’s, Paul Blangé. Bananas Foster took its name from Richard Foster, the chairman of the New Orleans Crime Commission and a personal friend of restaurateur Owen Brennan. I did, however, find a small discrepancy between the recipe offered on the Brennan’s official website and the one offered in my 1968 edition of the Brennan’s cookbook. Below are the ingredients for both versions, with the book version being expanded to include four servings (as a nod to its table-side origins, the book actually outlines Bananas Foster as a single-serve recipe). When converted to the same scale, however, the original recipe features only half as much brown sugar as the modern version, but it also features an extra quarter-cup of booze. Somewhere along the way, the recipe also switched from white rum to dark rum, which I thought was interesting.

BANANAS FOSTER, Brennan’s Online

• 1/2 stick butter
• 1 cup brown sugar
• 4 bananas, cut in half lengthwise, then halved
• 1/4 cup banana liqueur
• 1/4 cup dark rum
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 4 scoops vanilla ice cream

versus…

BANANAS FOSTER, Brennan’s Cookbook

• 1/2 stick butter
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 4 bananas, cut in half lengthwise
• 1/4 cup banana liqueur
• 1/2 cup white rum
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 4 scoops vanilla ice cream

• • •

Within certain boundaries, the recipe for Bananas Foster has a large degree of flexibility. For one, I wouldn’t go out of my way to buy banana liqueur, and I would probably use whatever style rum was on hand. For the version pictured above, which I scaled down to a single serving, I created the sauce from three tablespoons of butter, two tablespoons of brown sugar, two tablespoons of dark rum, and 1/4 teaspoon of ground cinnamon. Once you prepare this dessert, measuring eventually becomes less and less significant. It is, after all, a very basic combination of common ingredients. In my mind’s eye, I think of Bananas Foster simply as a good chunk of butter, an equal portion of brown sugar, a generous dash of ground cinnamon, and enough rum to turn it all into a sauce (and enough to throw a mighty flame, as well). Add one sliced banana and serve with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Done.

Although the ingredient list for Bananas Foster remains quite simple, the execution of the dish is worth explaining, especially in regard to its timing. Typically, I begin with a cold pan and heat the butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon together, allowing them to combine without burning the butter. During this initial step, it’s important to point out that the sugar itself may not readily dissolve, since sugar and butterfat are not soluble. Not to worry, however; sugar is soluble in rum. When the booze hits the pan, give it a second to vaporize, then flambé it before the moment is lost. Once the flames begin to subside, stir the mixture until the sugar loses its granular texture (if you use a wooden spoon, you can usually “feel” the sugar crystals against the bottom of the pan). Contrary to the classic approach, I typically prefer to add the sliced bananas at the very end; they’re delicate, and there’s no need to beat them up unnecessarily. Of course, the vanilla ice cream (preferably homemade) should be plated only moments before serving.

Almost famous.

Only in New Orleans could a sandwich as glorious as the muffaletta take a backseat to the po-boy. In just about any other city in the United States, the muffaletta would certainly rank as a culinary claim-to-fame, earning a mention alongside the cheesesteaks of Philly or the towering deli pastramis of New York City. But even in the shadow of the more famous po-boy, the muffaletta of New Orleans boasts a loyal legion of followers (after all, one cannot exist on po-boys alone). With its roots at the Central Grocery in the French Quarter, the [... read more ...]]]>

Almost famous.

Only in New Orleans could a sandwich as glorious as the muffaletta take a backseat to the po-boy. In just about any other city in the United States, the muffaletta would certainly rank as a culinary claim-to-fame, earning a mention alongside the cheesesteaks of Philly or the towering deli pastramis of New York City. But even in the shadow of the more famous po-boy, the muffaletta of New Orleans boasts a loyal legion of followers (after all, one cannot exist on po-boys alone). With its roots at the Central Grocery in the French Quarter, the classic muffaletta features a round sesame roll, olive spread, a slice of provolone cheese and an assortment of Italian cured meats. It’s thought that the original muffaletta dates back about 100 years, and traditionally, these unusually large sandwiches were sold either as halves or quarter-slices.

At Farmstead, the muffaletta is scaled down to an individual portion, but in terms of flavor and execution, the St. Helena restaurant features an admirable version of the New Orleans classic. Even better, the sandwich comes with Farmstead’s roasted-then-fried new potatoes.

C'est bon: Creole red beans, garnished with andouille sausage, parsley, and a sieved egg. Pictured in the BG: Crystal Extra Hot.

If I’m going to spend a Monday afternoon making a big pot of red beans, then I want them to be New Orleans red beans, like so many versions I tasted when I was living and cooking in the Crescent City. And just so you realize that I take these matters very seriously, I should point out that this recipe took some considerable time and effort, and not just on my part. The very foundation [... read more ...]]]>

C'est bon: Creole red beans, garnished with andouille sausage, parsley, and a sieved egg. Pictured in the BG: Crystal Extra Hot.

If I’m going to spend a Monday afternoon making a big pot of red beans, then I want them to be New Orleans red beans, like so many versions I tasted when I was living and cooking in the Crescent City. And just so you realize that I take these matters very seriously, I should point out that this recipe took some considerable time and effort, and not just on my part. The very foundation for this dish — the Camellia Brand red beans themselves — were sent to me by a good friend in New Orleans, a fellow chef who insisted that there was simply no viable substitute. Since Phil is usually correct about all things Creole, and because he was also willing to mail several pounds of dried beans to California, I naturally complied (Phil sent along a few other regional items as well, including six cans of Blue Runner beans and a bottle of Crystal Extra Hot). As for the andouille sausage, I also went the authentic route, and I ordered a few pounds of the real deal directly from Jacob’s World Famous in La Place (fortunately, Jacob’s will FedEx some of their heartier pork products, although their rival down the block, Bailey’s World Famous, does not offer this same service).

• • •

Historically, red beans and rice is considered a “Creole” dish, meaning that its roots are located in the City of New Orleans (or thereabouts). Although the words “Cajun” and “Creole” have become practically interchangeable today, “Cajun” cooking implies a cuisine that was developed in the more rural areas of Louisiana, such as Opelousas. Chef Paul Prudhomme is perhaps the most famous native of Opelousas, and he was actually my former employer at K-Paul’s. Over the years, Prudhomme has authored several books regarding Louisiana cuisine, including 1987′s “The Prudhomme Family Cookbook,” in which he notes, “when I was growing up in Cajun country, red beans were just another dried bean, like pinto beans and lima beans — and Cajuns loved dried beans. But when I moved to New Orleans, I discovered that red beans were a cultural phenomenon, a tradition dating back for hundreds of years.”

As I’ve often pondered the recipe for authentic Creole red beans, “The Prudhomme Family Cookbook” is just one of several vintage New Orleans cookbooks that I’ve referenced. In fact, over the years, I’ve gone back to Prudhomme’s original book — 1984′s “Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen” — so many times, that the book automatically opens to the red beans recipe on page 190 (true story). But Paul Prudhomme represents just one part of the total equation: One of my most-trusted resources for Creole cooking is the legendary Lena Richard, author of 1940′s “New Orleans Cook Book,” which provides amazing recipes for so many great Creole dishes. Some of the other landmark cookbooks in my collection include a 1942 edition of the “Picayune Creole Cook Book” (published by the New Orleans Times-Picayune), a 1964 edition of “Brennan’s New Orleans Cookbook,” a 1981 edition of “La Bonne Cuisine” (a famous recipe compilation by the Women of All Saints’ Episcopal Church, New Orleans); and 1969′s “New Orleans Cuisine” by Mary Land. Each book puts a slightly different spin on Creole red beans and rice, and aside from those already mentioned, there are several more historic New Orleans cookbooks that have also provided me with beaucoup insight. Rather than list them all here, I’ll mention them if they become pertinent.

• • •

As the folks from New Orleans know, red beans and rice is traditionally a Monday dish, with Monday also being the traditional wash day. As Leon Soniat points out in his 1981 cookbook, “La Bouche Creole,” dealing with the laundry took quite a bit of effort in the old days. The idea, of course, was to multitask, since cooking red beans and doing laundry were both chores that required several hours each. The fortunate part was that, in terms of the actual effort involved, cooking a pot of red beans was mostly a passive process of all-day simmering. Therefore, it was possible to get the beans rolling in the morning, then deal with the wash all day. Soniat describes this era the best: “Come Monday morning washday would begin. The procedure usually involved three large tubs — the tub in which the clothes had been soaking and in which they would be scrubbed on a washboard, another tub filled with water in which the clothes were rinsed, and the third tub to be filled with water to which a few spoonfuls of bluing had been added. A small tub of thick, sticky starch would be cooking on the stove. After being washed, some of the clothes were dipped into the starch and then hung out to dry.”

• • •

Among the many red bean recipes that I’ve researched over the years, the cooking times can actually vary quite a bit, although I can assure you that no decent batch of red beans was ever made in 30 minutes. At the minimum, each recipe requires at least a couple hours of simmering, however, and each of them also requires soaking the beans in cold water the night before. The subject of cooking dried beans is actually not a simple one, even though so few foods may seem as basic as the “staple” bean. Some of my cookbooks feature sections that address dried bean cookery directly. One of the main issues revolves around salt, and more specifically, when it should be added to the cooking liquid. Conventional “wisdom” is that salt strengthens the skins of the bean, thus preventing them from breaking down during cooking (I was even taught this misguided principle at the CIA). It turns out this caveat is highly debatable, and possibly dead wrong. Contrary to popular belief, famed food scientist Harold McGee asserts that salting the soaking liquid of the beans helps to cook them more quickly (and season them more evenly, to boot). If it works for McGee, then it works for me: End of story.

Aside from the salt debate, the “hardness” of your cooking water and the age of the beans themselves are two other important factors in determining a bean’s cooking time (altitude also has an effect, while we’re on the subject). For folks who have noticeably hard water, the surplus minerals may inhibit the water’s ability to penetrate the bean during cooking. Likewise, ingredients that are high in acid, such as tomatoes, or high in calcium, such as molasses, will also inhibit the breakdown of dried beans (which is why chili beans and baked beans are able to maintain their shape so well over time). However, since high-acid and high-calcium ingredients are not relevant to cooking Creole red beans (mostly), this point is moot, although the hard water issue may still present a problem. To combat the effects of hard water, some food scientists advise adding a little baking soda to the cooking liquid, while others claim that this technique may introduce a “soapy” characteristic. That said, I recommend just being patient, and simply allowing all the time necessary to avoid this type of self-sabotage. If hard water is really that serious of a concern, better to splurge on bottled water.

• • •

In comparing red bean recipes among several cookbooks and from several decades, I tried to find common themes among the ingredients. I considered five various elements in each recipe, beginning with (1) the cooking liquid, (2) the other vegetables, (3) the preferred pork product, (4) the herb and spice profile, and finally, (5) the garnish. Aside from listing some different cooking times, the method for each recipe is strikingly similar: Simmer everything together until the beans are done, and then mash them up a bit, if necessary, to help them achieve their desired creaminess. Simple. So the real differences between each recipe has much more to do with ingredients, rather than techniques. Right off the top, I noticed that water is the standard cooking liquid in all the recipes except for one (Prudhomme’s red bean recipe in “Prudhomme Family” calls for chicken stock as the preferred option, although his recipe in “Louisiana Kitchen” does not). And so, with water pretty much being the consensus choice for cooking liquid, I shifted my focus to the other four elements:

Vegetables: The Complete Cajun Trinity?

Thanks to Emeril Lagasse, most of America has now become familiar with the Holy Trinity of Cajun cooking: onion, celery, bell pepper. This trio presents an American twist on the classic French mirepoix: onion, celery, carrot. I noticed that many classic red bean recipes do not feature the entire Cajun Trinity, perhaps revealing their origin in Creole culture (if red beans had been first embraced by the Cajun culture, we might have seen a distinct difference in this regard). With that in mind, the only red bean recipes that do feature the entire Trinity are those from Paul Prudhomme (no surprise, from a native of Opelousas) and Leon Soniat. One of the the oldest recipes — from the “Picayune Creole Cookbook” — actually calls for carrots, though no bell pepper or celery. Lena Richard’s version features onion and bell pepper (but no celery); “La Bonne Cuisine” requires onion and celery (no bell pepper, although this unique recipe does call for a can of tomato sauce); Mary Land’s recipe calls for onion only; “Brennan’s” calls for just onion and shallot (or what most non-Creole people would call a green onion). It’s clearly debatable. I say, if you’ve got the entire Cajun Trinity in your pantry, then roll with it. Otherwise, make sure you at least have an onion. And omit the tomato sauce, no matter what.

Pork: Pickled Meat, and At What Point Sausage?

One of the beautiful things about cooking red beans and rice on Mondays is that traditionally, many New Orleans families would often have a leftover ham bone from Sunday dinner. In Lena Richard’s recipe, she calls for a ham shank or “pickled meat” (pork shoulder, usually, that has been pickled and preserved through heavy brining). Leon Soniat calls for pickled pork or ham, while many recipes, including those from “Brennan’s” and the “Picayune Cook Book,” simply call for chopped ham outright. Regardless, every single red beans recipe requires some form of seasoned pork product. Mary Land and Paul Prudhomme both call for ham hocks, which is also my favorite choice (assuming I had no leftover ham bone).

As one might expect, many recipes for red beans call for andouille sausage, although most do not. Of course, I’m inclined to add andouille whenever possible, since it’s so damn delicious. Few folks from Louisiana would disagree, although they might disagree on when to add the sausage (this debate presents one the of the few instances when red bean recipe methods do not form a general consensus). Paul Prudhomme instructs readers to add the sausage during cooking, although in the very latter stages. Leon Soniat is absolutely adamant that sausage shouldn’t be added at all, instead opting to cook it separately and treat it more like a garnish. Since some folks seem so against it, and since there are other pork products simmering in the liquid, I’m amenable to cooking the andouille separately.

Herbs and Spices: A Pumpkin Pie Profile?

Among the list of herbs and spices present in most recipes for red beans, garlic is by far the most common, and I believe that it’s a standard across the board. A bay leaf is also standard for the most part, and thyme is practically universal as well.  Aside from these two basic elements, Paul Prudhomme adds white pepper, oregano and cayenne; “La Bonne Cuisine” calls for garlic, bay leaves, and Worcestershire (extra points for umami); while 1975′s “The New Orleans Cookbook” by Rima and Richard Collin calls for garlic, bay, thyme, cayenne, and (oddly) dried basil. By far, the most unique spice profile for red beans is the one provided by Leon Soniat, who in “La Bouche Creole” calls for garlic, bay leaf, thyme, cayenne, chili powder, allspice and cloves. These latter two “baking” spices are certainly intriguing in this context (and a clear nod to the West Indies), but I’m not too sure about going too far in that one particular direction; I’m willing to add a pinch of allspice, but I always fear that cloves can overpower a dish.

Garnishes: What’s the Final Creole Touch?

Although many cookbooks feature different approaches to Creole red beans, a surprising number of them agree upon the garnish, which is typically a couple tablespoons of chopped parsley (some recipes will have the parsley stirred into the beans just prior to serving, while other recipes recommend sprinkling the parsley over the top). I’ve noticed that the really old school recipes call for a sieved egg as the garnish, which I admire not only for its tradition, but because sieved eggs bring a terrific color contrast to an otherwise monotone dish. With that general principle in mind, I opt for the best of both worlds: A sieved egg alongside the more contemporary chopped parsley (sprinkled, not stirred).

• • •

AUTHENTIC CREOLE RED BEANS

Ingredients

• Red beans, dried (preferably Camellia Brand), 1 lb.

• Ham hocks, four each

• Onion, one large, diced (about 2 cups)

• Celery, 3 ribs, diced (about 1 cup)

• Red bell pepper, one each, seeded and diced (about 1 cup)

• Green onion, tops only, one bunch, diced (about 1/2 cup)

• Garlic, minced, three toes

• Bay leaf, 3 each

• Dried thyme, 1/2T

• Dried oregano, 1/2T

• Allspice, 1/2t

• L&P Worcstershire sauce, 1T

• Salt and black pepper, to taste

• Crystal hot sauce, to taste

• Garnish: sauteed half-moons of andouille sausage, chopped parsley, and a sieved egg

Method

1. Soak the red beans in salted cold water overnight (the solution should taste like slightly diluted sea water).

2. The next day, drain and rinse the beans thoroughly, and set them aside. In a large stock pot, combine 2 quarts of water with the ham hocks, Trinity, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, oregano, black pepper, allspice, and Worcestershire. Bring liquid to a boil, and then simmer for 30 minutes.

3. Add the red beans to the pot, and allow them to simmer, perhaps for a few hours, until they finally begin to break apart naturally.

4. Once the beans have formed a creamy consistency, season them with salt and hot sauce, if necessary. Remove the ham hocks, and carve away the meaty portions. Dice the ham hock meat and return it to the red beans.

5. Serve the red beans over fluffy white rice, and garnish with half-moons of sauteed andouille sausage, chopped parsley, and a sieved egg.

Lagniappe

During simmering, add as much water as necessary to the beans to help avoid scorching. I typically begin with two quarts of water, and if I leave the stock pot lid ajar, I sometimes don’t have to add any additional water (some steams escapes, but some drips back into the pot). Also, as the cooking liquid reduces, reduce the cooking temperature accordingly (it will require less and less heat to maintain a gentle simmer, especially as the beans release their starches). This latter tip also applies when the ham hocks are removed.

Earlier this week, I had planned to visit Brenda’s French Soul Food for a bowl of grillades and grits, having recently emailed a friend about a memorable version of this dish that I once tasted at Cafe Degas in New Orleans. That email awakened a latent craving, and naturally, I thought of Brenda’s as the best and only choice for authentic Cajun cuisine in the Bay Area. Fast forward to yesterday: I left Napa shortly after the morning rush hour, and 50 miles later, I was standing on Polk Street, waiting for [... read more ...]]]>

Could it get any more Southern?

Earlier this week, I had planned to visit Brenda’s French Soul Food for a bowl of grillades and grits, having recently emailed a friend about a memorable version of this dish that I once tasted at Cafe Degas in New Orleans. That email awakened a latent craving, and naturally, I thought of Brenda’s as the best and only choice for authentic Cajun cuisine in the Bay Area. Fast forward to yesterday: I left Napa shortly after the morning rush hour, and 50 miles later, I was standing on Polk Street, waiting for a table outside Brenda’s tiny 40-seat dining room. Although the sun was shining, the San Francisco air was chilly that morning, with a stiff breeze channeling through the streets and alleyways — the perfect day for a hot, starchy bowl of grits.

The wait at Brenda’s brings some anticipation, as one might expect. As folks exited the restaurant (each group of diners looking fully content, by the way), the door would bellow out this warm, deliciously fragrant kitchen aroma. It was such a tease for those of us waiting outside, and everyone inside the restaurant looked quite smug with their generous portions of breakfast, brunch and lunch. It was only during my wait outside that I decided to order the shrimp and grits, having noticed the daily specials written on Breanda’s sidewalk sandwich board. Although it presented a slight change in plans from my intended grillades and grits, the shrimp were prepared in a tomato-bacon gravy, which I absolutely had to try.

After fifteen minutes, my name was called, and I was in. I ordered a watermelon iced tea, the crawfish beignets, and of course, a bowl of shrimp and grits. The house-made watermelon iced tea is just one example of how Brenda’s is able to nail all of the smaller details. It’s just barely sweet, and the watermelon flavor comes through nicely on the finish. It’s a thoughtful alternative to regular iced tea (also offered), and for me, the sign of truly native Southern palate. The food, of course, is what really packs them in (and makes them wait). You’ll read plenty about the crawfish beignets online: I enjoyed them, but will request a side of remoulade next time, just because I think that would be even tastier. As for the main event, the shrimp and grits were profoundly good, decadent but not over-the-top with the cheese, with a red gravy that delivered on its potential.

In general, I’ve always felt that scallops and sweet corn complemented each other quite nicely, which ultimately inspired me to prepare the dish pictured above. To be honest, however, the specific notion of diver scallops with sweet corn maque choux struck me as a true revelation the other day, and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this particular combination sooner. Then I googled “scallop maque choux” and found that Emeril Lagasse has already created this dish, along with a recipe. Oh well, I’m sure that Emeril wasn’t the [... read more ...]]]>

C'est Bon: Diver Scallops with Sweet Corn Maque Choux

In general, I’ve always felt that scallops and sweet corn complemented each other quite nicely, which ultimately inspired me to prepare the dish pictured above. To be honest, however, the specific notion of diver scallops with sweet corn maque choux struck me as a true revelation the other day, and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this particular combination sooner. Then I googled “scallop maque choux” and found that Emeril Lagasse has already created this dish, along with a recipe. Oh well, I’m sure that Emeril wasn’t the first to think of it, either.

I will note, however, that Emeril’s recipe contains a misnomer, at least where I’m from. The recipe in question calls for eight “bay” scallops, which are actually the very tiny ones (you could easily fit four or five bay scallops into a single tablespoon). The way the recipe reads — and what I think Emeril, or his ghost writer, probably meant — was eight “sea” scallops, or eight “diver” scallops (these are the large ones, up to two ounces each, which are suitable for pan-searing or even grilling).

But while diver scallops and a bay scallops are two very specific entities, sweet corn maque choux is far more subjective. As Paul Prudhomme mentions in his seminal cookbook, “Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Louisiana Kitchen,” every Cajun household is likely to have its very own maque choux recipe. Some recipes call for heavy cream, some call for evaporated milk, some call for eggs and milk beaten to a froth, and some just require a little butter for the sauté pan. For my version, I went with the latter approach, opting to keep things light and simple for the summertime.

Sweet Corn Maque Choux Ingredients (serves four)

• Fresh corn kernels, 3 cups (four ears of corn)

• Red bell pepper, diced, 3/4 cup (about 1/2 a pepper)

• Yellow onion, diced, 3/4 cup (about 1/2 an onion)

• Chicken stock, 1 1/2 cups

• Unsalted butter, 2T + 1T

• Paul Prudhomme’s Seafood Magic, 2T

• Chives, chopped, 1/2T (optional)

Sweet Corn Maque Choux Method

1. In a sauté pan, melt two tablespoons of butter on medium heat and add the seasoning mix, stirring until the mixture becomes foamy and fragrant. Add the corn, the bell pepper, and the onion and stir well to combine. Cook for about five minutes, stirring occasionally. When a starchy brown crust begins to form along the bottom of the pan, add one cup of chicken stock to deglaze.

2. Allow the vegetables to simmer on medium-low heat, stirring occasionally. Once the chicken stock has completely reduced, add the other half cup of stock along with one tablespoon of butter. Set heat to low and stir well, until the butter and stock combine to form a glaze. Taste for seasoning, and adjust if necessary. Garnish with the chopped chives.

• • •

Pan-seared Scallop Ingredients (serves four)

• Diver scallops, twelve each (you can definitely scale this number back for an appetizer portion)

• Vegetable oil, 1T (clarified butter is even better, but perhaps less practical for the home cook)

• Unsalted butter, 2T

• Paper towels

Pan-seared Scallop Method

1. While a sauté pan heats, pat the diver scallops dry with a few paper towels. Add the vegetable oil to the pan, coating the bottom evenly. Once the oil has just begun to smoke slightly, add the scallops and reduce the heat to medium-low. Allow the scallops to sit in the pan undisturbed, while they form a golden brown crust (you can press down on the scallops to get an even browning — just don’t move them until they form their crust).

2. After about one minute, check the underside of the scallops for color. Flip them when they have become golden brown, and add the two tablespoons of butter. Baste the scallops with the butter, and cook them until they just become slightly firm when pinching them at the sides (this signifies medium-rare). Remove the scallops from pan, and plate them atop the sweet corn maque choux.

I’m slightly skeptical of “chipotle” anything these days. To me, this pepper was arguably THE ingredient of the 1990s, as smoked red jalapeños began to officially hit the American mainstream. Not only did a burrito chain emerge from Colorado emblazoned with this very name, but television chefs such as Bobby Flay seemed to be infusing chipotle peppers into every recipe imaginable. These days, you can order a Chipotle Chicken Ciabatta at Jack in the Box or a select a packet of Ancho Chipotle Ranch Dressing for a Wendy’s salad. From my perspective, now that [... read more ...]]]>

I’m slightly skeptical of “chipotle” anything these days. To me, this pepper was arguably THE ingredient of the 1990s, as smoked red jalapeños began to officially hit the American mainstream. Not only did a burrito chain emerge from Colorado emblazoned with this very name, but television chefs such as Bobby Flay seemed to be infusing chipotle peppers into every recipe imaginable. These days, you can order a Chipotle Chicken Ciabatta at Jack in the Box or a select a packet of Ancho Chipotle Ranch Dressing for a Wendy’s salad. From my perspective, now that this ubiquitous pepper has successfully reached the drive-thru, its culinary cache is all but lost.

When I noticed that the shrimp po-boy at Brenda’s French Soul Food featured a chipotle remoulade, I was naturally a bit dubious, at least initially. On the surface, it all felt a bit gimmicky and slightly behind-the-times, the whole notion of a chipotle remoulade. But on the other hand, everything else about Brenda’s rang true, including the restaurant’s terrific word of mouth and its reputation for long lines of repeat customers. And then there is chef Brenda Buenviaje herself, a native of New Orleans and the product of a Creole-Filipino upbringing. All things considered, perhaps my issue with chipotle peppers was simply my own hang-up.

• • •

I can understand how Brenda’s French Soul Food stays crowded throughout breakfast and lunch (the restaurant closes at 3pm everyday). The location itself is tiny, enough so that it’s easily possible to brush elbows with the folks at a neighboring table. The scene can be surprising for those who are not ready for it: a little dining room jammed with diners, with waitstaff heroically navigating the cramped quarters. The best thing to do in this situation, at least if you’re alone, is to simply park yourself at the counter and wait for a menu.

I certainly won’t be the first one to mention that Brenda’s French Soul Food is fantastic — I’ll just join the chorus of cheers. My doubts about chipotle remoulade were put to rest as soon as I tasted Brenda’s pitch-perfect chicken, andouille and okra gumbo. This soup (pictured above) is the genuine article in every way, and most likely one of the best you’ll taste outside of Louisiana. Quite frankly, it’s a dish with no potential room for improvement. About halfway through this cup of gumbo, I began to suspect that — chipotle remoulade or not — the shrimp po-boy would easily pass muster.

Fortunately, I was right. Brenda’s shrimp po-boy is a great sandwich, although po-boy purists might demand an actual Leidenheimer roll — which they allegedly serve over at Yats — in lieu of Brenda’s toasted French roll (pictured below). Although I do appreciate the distinct texture and characteristics of Leidenheimer bread, the shrimp po-boy at Brenda’s proves to be an admirable rendition of the New Orleans classic. The shrimp themselves are big, sweet, and perfectly fried. And as for the chipotle remoulade, it holds its own rather nicely.

My remoulade epiphany occurred when I was living in New Orleans, studying Creole cooking and doing my best to eat five square meals per day. My journey as a cook had brought me to K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen in the French Quarter, where I ate more deep fried oysters and shrimp than most people will ever see in their lifetime. Sounds pretty dreamy, right? Snacking on an endless supply of oysters and shrimp during the lulls in the kitchen. But these were the spoils of the fry station, which was otherwise the worst job in the house.

It was during one of these endless shifts on the fryer that a fellow co-worker — not content to eat fried seafood without a dipping sauce — whipped up an impromptu remoulade that just dazzled me with its delicious simplicity. Of course, there was no recipe involved in this type of cooking. The guiding principle for any remoulade is that things that taste great will often taste great together, within reason. Since my days at K-Paul’s, I’ve read dozens of remoulade recipes, sourced from all kinds of Cajun and Creole cookbooks, just to research all of the different takes on this versatile sauce.

At the very least, remoulade must feature mayonnaise as its base, but after that, the entire recipe seems open to interpretation: some recipes call for the addition of ketchup, some call for mustard, and some call for hot sauce. I’m sure that somewhere in Louisiana, someone probably insists that no remoulade is complete without all three of these ingredients. As for me, I like to use hot sauce as my second ingredient, as long as this hot sauce is from Louisiana.

Although my first experience with remoulade was in the context of fried seafood, remoulade can actually have many culinary applications. It can be employed as a salad dressing, a dipping sauce, or sandwich spread. Essentially, any time a situation calls for mayonnaise, remoulade presents a terrific alternative. Here is my own recipe. And to all of my Southern readers, feel free to tell me what I’ve missed…

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Ingredients (makes about one quart)

• 30-oz (one standard sized jar) of Best Foods mayonnaise

• 1/4 cup Crystal Hot Sauce

• 1/4 Creole mustard (or spicy brown mustard)

• 1T Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce

• 3T dill pickle relish

• 2T capers, drained and minced

• 2T celery leaves, chopped (about one cup of leaves before chopping)

• 1T Coleman’s Mustard

• Juice of half a lemon

• Ground black pepper to taste

Method

1. Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Refrigerate.

Mandina’s is probably my favorite restaurant in New Orleans, at least when I’m in the mood for a shrimp poboy and a bowl of turtle soup. I found this photo online at wikimedia.org, and I really like how the neon pops against the dark background. Following its demise after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, the restaurant finally re-opened during Mardi Gras 2007, a week I happened to be back in the Crescent City. Seeing this place up and running was a highlight of my [... read more ...]]]>

Mandina’s is probably my favorite restaurant in New Orleans, at least when I’m in the mood for a shrimp poboy and a bowl of turtle soup. I found this photo online at wikimedia.org, and I really like how the neon pops against the dark background. Following its demise after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, the restaurant finally re-opened during Mardi Gras 2007, a week I happened to be back in the Crescent City. Seeing this place up and running was a highlight of my visit.

Located at the edge of the infamous Ninth Ward, the [... read more ...]]]> Big Jay was the person who first introduced me to Gene’s Po-Boys, and since I didn’t own a car when I lived in New Orleans, he was always my passport to their legendary cheeseburgers. There was a considerable stretch when — at least two or three times per week — we would drive over to Gene’s immediately after finishing our dinner shift at K-Paul’s. It became the type of situation where, if either of us even mentioned Gene’s, then that became the plan after work, no questions asked.

Located at the edge of the infamous Ninth Ward, the neighborhood surrounding Gene’s was always a bit dodgy in those early hours, but I didn’t choose to worry about any of that. I’m reasonably tall and far from skinny, while Big Jay was at least 6-6 and 300 pounds. He had graduated from the University of Arkansas on an athletic scholarship, and anyone would’ve bet the farm that he had spent his glory days on the grid-iron. Ironically, Big Jay was actually a scratch golfer, which is how he earned his full ride.

Since we were always dressed in our chef’s clothes when we headed to Gene’s, I always felt pretty confident about rolling into that neighborhood for a quick bite. After all, our kitchen garb clearly identified us as working-class locals, and besides, it’s highly unlikely that a line cook could ever own something worth stealing, so why even bother? Fortunately for us, however, a cheeseburger po-boy at Gene’s was always affordable, even if payday always seemed like a long ways away.

One night at K-Paul’s, Big Jay and I were plotting our next visit to Gene’s, and we asked one of our co-workers, Jerome, if he wanted to come along. Jerome politely declined, probably because he didn’t want to go anywhere near the Ninth Ward with a couple of pasty Caucasians. If that was indeed his reason — and I suspect that it was — then I could certainly respect that. Big Jay and I were hardly incognito in that neighborhood, especially at two in the morning.

We asked Jerome if he had ever been to Gene’s, and he just smiled at our naivety. Jerome, who had already been cooking at K-Paul’s for nine years when I met him, was a Crescent City native (and a bad-ass line cook). “Every black person in New Orleans knows Gene’s,” he confirmed. Considering that was about 60% of the population at the time, I felt like that was a pretty sound endorsement — and just one more excuse to make the late-night trek.

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The legendary Gene’s Po-Boys, Elysian Fields and St. Claude, daytime

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