Back when I was working as a prep cook at Houston’s Santa Monica, a cracked cheesecake wasn’t necessarily the worst thing in the entire world: It meant that some of the pieces couldn’t be served, and that they would become fair game for the cooks. Of course, for the unfortunate person who actually baked the dessert, it was a little more bitter than sweet, seeing an otherwise beautiful cheesecake suddenly develop an [... read more ...]]]>

The eggnog anglaise contains bourbon. You can also add a little bourbon to the whipped cream, if it's been that kind of a year.

Back when I was working as a prep cook at Houston’s Santa Monica, a cracked cheesecake wasn’t necessarily the worst thing in the entire world: It meant that some of the pieces couldn’t be served, and that they would become fair game for the cooks. Of course, for the unfortunate person who actually baked the dessert, it was a little more bitter than sweet, seeing an otherwise beautiful cheesecake suddenly develop an unsightly crack as it cooled: It usually meant having to bake another cheesecake in its place, in order to make up for the pieces that couldn’t be salvaged. On a particularly busy day, getting another cheesecake in the oven wasn’t always easy, especially when oven space could trade at a premium in the afternoon. To be honest, there were definitely days when baking cheesecake was the bane of my existence, but somehow, I’ve never grown weary of eating cheesecake. I still love it. I’m addicted to custards in general, and cheesecake is simply a hearty form of custard, much more the cousin of creme brulee than any flour-based cake.

There are a few different schools of thought regarding cheesecake, although for me, baking this dessert in a water bath remains standard operating procedure. With cheesecake, the goal is to bring the eggs just to the point of coagulation, which occurs at 158ºF. That said, the challenge is to hit the ~160ºF mark without going over, since temperatures of ~180ºF and beyond will over-coagulate the egg proteins, essentially “wringing out” the liquid, and causing the cheesecake to weep. A cracked cheesecake is a visual bummer, but can still prove palatable. However, a weepy, over-cooked cheesecake has very little redeeming value, since over-coagulating the eggs also produces a grainy texture. Since temperature is so critical with cheesecake, I recommend using a probe thermometer, at least until you learn to “read” the cheesecake by tapping the pan. But more about that later.

As a former pastry cook, I considered several possibilities regarding presentation, but I ultimately decided upon a simple motif of fall-colored leaves. Originally, I had envisioned a plate covered in fall foliage, but I soon realized that fewer leaves could convey the same notion without pushing this idea into the absurd. At one point, having fueled my imagination with a bunch of Napa Cabernet, I had also considered making a thin sheet of clear, cinnamon-flavored gelee, which would mimic the look of a rain puddle. However, I felt that this was perhaps an odd direction to take — a little too avant garde — and the idea of eggnog anglaise was just too comforting to pass up. As for the other components of the dish, I certainly didn’t reinvent the wheel: Gingerbread is a classic fall and winter flavor, and a fitting accompaniment to pumpkin cheesecake.

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Sugar pie pumpkins are a small varietal, with the two pumpkins above weighing a total of five pounds at the market. I like to use a #24 disher to scoop the seeds and stringy pulp; it offers much more leverage than a spoon.

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Slow-roasted sugar pie pumpkins emerge from the oven after about an hour at 350ºF. They are ready for puree once they have become fork-tender.

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The easiest way to remove the flesh from a pumpkin is to press it through a wire rack, as pictured above. Once the skin of the pumpkin has been pressed flush, simply scrape away the interior flesh (the underside of the wire rack) with a table knife or better yet, a bench scraper.

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I’m always curious about yields, and so I weighed the pumpkin throughout the preparation stages. As mentioned in the caption above, the two pumpkins I purchased weighed a total of about five pounds at the market. After the flesh had been seeded, roasted and separated from the skin, it yielded 30 ounces. Adding the sugar and the spices to the pumpkin increased the mass, but passing the mixture through a sieve yielded just over 20 ounces. Considering I began with 80 ounces of pumpkin at the market, these two sugar pies only yielded 25% of their original weight for filling. Quite a bit goes to compost, but fortunately, pumpkins aren’t that expensive per pound.

• RECIPE •

SUGAR PIE PUMPKIN FILLING

Sugar Pie Pumpkin Filling Ingredients

• Sugar pie pumpkins, 2 each (totaling about 5 lbs.)

• Sugar, 3/4 cup

• Cinnamon, 1T

• Allspice, 1t

• Vanilla extract, 1T

• Salt, one pinch

Sugar Pie Pumpkin Filling Method

1. Halve and seed the pumpkins, and roast until fork tender (about one hour at 350ºF).

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2. Remove flesh from pumpkins, then combine all the ingredients in a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Mix for about 5 minutes on medium.

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3. With a rubber spatula, pass the pumpkin filling through a sieve, discarding any stringy pulp left behind. This process can take a little bit of force and elbow grease, and you may have to pass the pumpkin in batches, but the reward is a perfectly smooth filling.

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4. Chill.

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"C" is for cookie and cheesecake.

Essentially, I used a giant gingerbread cookie for the cheesecake’s crust, rolling gingerbread dough about 1/8″ thick, then cutting it with the ring of my spring-form pan. The cookie will spread slightly when baked, so again I used the spring-form ring to lightly score the cookie after it had been removed from the oven. From there, I cut away the excess dough with a paring knife, reserving the scraps to help create a lip for the crust. On a side note, if you don’t feel like making gingerbread from scratch, I wouldn’t be disappointed in anybody who opted to use store-bought-then-crushed ginger snaps to make a graham cracker-style crust. Even if you wanted to use canned pumpkin in the filling, I’d still consider that honest cooking, but for Round 8 of Project Food Blog, I certainly wasn’t going to err on the side of Sandra Lee. For the gingerbread, I used the November 1999 recipe from Cook’s Illustrated, which I would’ve included here, except their site is subscription-based, and they probably have a greater interest in copyright infringement than a free site. I don’t want Christopher Kimball knocking at my door.

Half the dough went to crust, the other half went to cookies.

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As I had alluded at the top, cheesecake offers no guarantees. Even if you take every precaution necessary, sometimes they’ll still develop cracks as they cool. The two best things you can do to ensure a beautiful cheese are to (a) use a water bath during baking and (b) be careful not to overcook the cheesecake. Using a water bath for cooking is straight-forward and simple, but judging a cheesecake’s “doneness” may prove more daunting. The main thing to remember about cheesecake is that it’s served chilled, but you have to determine its doneness while it’s warm. That said, just because it might jiggle in the oven, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will still jiggle after four hours in the fridge. For a cheesecake to set, the egg just needs to barely coagulate. My rule of thumb: Cut the heat on the oven when the outer ring has practically set, and the “super-jiggly” portion is only about four inches in diameter (that’s with a 10-inch spring-form pan). After you’ve made a couple cheesecakes, you’ll know it when you see it.

• RECIPE •

SUGAR PIE PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE

Sugar Pie Pumpkin Cheesecake Ingredients

• Cream cheese, 24 oz (three packs)

• Heavy cream, 3/4 cup

• Eggs, 6 each

• Sugar, 1-1/2 cups

• Pumpkin filling from the recipe above, 1 cup

• Gingerbread, 10″ baked disc from the recipe above

Sugar Pie Pumpkin Cheesecake Method

1. Prepare a 10-inch spring-form with parchment paper, followed by the 10-inch gingerbread disc. Use gingerbread scraps to fit the cookie tightly against the side of the pan. Preheat the oven to 325ºF, and set the rack to medium height.

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2. Cut the cream cheese into cubes, and paddle on medium speed for about five minutes. Add the heavy cream, the pumpkin filling and the sugar, and paddle this mixture until it is well-combined (no streaks). Add the eggs, one at a time, scraping the sides of the mixing bowl thoroughly. Once the eggs have been added, continue to mix the cheesecake filling until all the lumps have completely disappeared. Lumps float to the surface during baking, so this is essential for the cheesecake’s appearance.

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3. To prevent water from the water bath from seeping into the cheesecake, wrap the exterior of the spring-form pan with a layer of aluminum foil. Pour the cheesecake filling into the pan, then place the spring-form pan into a roasting pan. Add hot water to the roasting pan, until it reaches about two-thirds up the side of the spring-form pan. Place this set-up in the oven, and bake for about an hour, but base your decision upon temperature, not time. The center of the filling needs to reach ~150ºF, but not much warmer (when the cheesecake reaches this temperature, tap the pan gently to see how much a cooked cheesecake will still actually jiggle). At this point, turn off the oven, and allow the cheesecake to cool in the oven with the door propped slightly open.

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4. After about an hour, remove the cheesecake from the oven, discarding the tinfoil, but covering the spring-form pan with plastic wrap. Allow the cheesecake to chill in the refrigerator for at least four hours. Once cooled, run a paring knife or an offset spatula around the edge of the cheesecake to help it release from the pan. Remove the spring-form carefully.

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5. Serve and eat.

Eggs, heavy cream, sugar and vanilla are the base of creme anglaise. The addition of bourbon and nutmeg can spin it in the direction of eggnog.

Putting eggnog alongside pumpkin seemed like a deft way to bridge the flavors of November with the flavors of December. I wanted a sauce that was reasonably thick, so I whisked two egg yolks with 1/2 cup of sugar until the mixture became pale yellow. I then added one cup of scalded heavy cream to the eggs, slowly stirring in the cream two tablespoons at a time. Once the heavy cream and the eggs were combined, I whisked them over medium heat until the mixture coated the back of a wooden spoon. I strained the mixture to remove any bits of coagulated egg, then added nutmeg and bourbon to taste (a touch of the former, a splash of the latter). After chilling the mixture, it was ready.

When I was cooking professionally, making tuilles was often part of the daily routine: At Auberge, we sprinkled finely-chopped dried black olives on tuilles and used this savory cookie to garnish the lamb dish; when I was cooking pastries at Martini House, we baked sugar-sprinkled tuilles in all sorts of different shapes, including mini-cones for our sorbet intermezzos. What I really like about tuilles for this project is that they have limitless possibilities, and they are very forgiving from a baking standpoint. The tuille recipe itself is disarmingly simple: Equal parts sugar, flour, egg white, and melted butter (four ounces of each makes a reasonable batch). These four ingredients (and a tablespoon of cinnamon) are combined and cooled, creating a light and simple cookie batter that spreads like paste at cooler temperatures, but behaves more like crepe batter at warmer temperatures.

Though free-form tuilles do have their place, I wanted to use a template for this project. I heated a metal cookie cutter with a creme brulee torch, then pressed it into a large plastic lid. The metal melts the plastic, and the interior pops out easily.

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I wanted to give the tuille some added texture and dimension, so I used a second piece of plastic to create a stem.

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Leaves and stems on the silpat. They bake at 350ºF for a total of eight minutes.

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Being smaller, the stems will brown after four minutes. At this point, remove the sheet tray, and use an offset spatula to place one stem on each leaf. Then, bake the tuilles for four more minutes, until the leaf portion begins to turn golden brown at the edges. The stem will fuse to the leaf during this time.

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Truthfully, the tuille above could be sprinkled with a heavy dose of cinnamon-sugar and it would be a beautiful garnish. However, I wanted more color. After painting the leaves red, I baked the tuilles for four more minutes, in order to dry them out and re-crisp them once and for all.

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Simply Red: I had considered using some gold dust on these tuilles, but I really liked how they looked at this stage, so I stopped. I cooled the tuilles inside large servings spoons in order to make the leaves slightly concave, and a little more natural looking. The tuilles can hold overnight in an air-tight container, and can also be re-crisped, if necessary (although they will become progressively darker).

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The idea of a “cassoulet” pizza popped into my mind the other night, if I remember correctly, somewhere between my second and third bottle of Cab Sauv. I’m a comfort food junkie above all else, and cassoulet ranks as one of my all-time favorite dishes, especially in the fall. As I thought about it further, the entire concept of “cassoulet pizza” soon began to reveal itself: The duck confit and garlic sausage would garnish the pizza, of [... read more ...]]]>

White bean puree, topped with duck confit, duck cracklins, garlic sausage, and Gruyère de Comté breadcrumbs. Click any pic to zoom.

The idea of a “cassoulet” pizza popped into my mind the other night, if I remember correctly, somewhere between my second and third bottle of Cab Sauv. I’m a comfort food junkie above all else, and cassoulet ranks as one of my all-time favorite dishes, especially in the fall. As I thought about it further, the entire concept of “cassoulet pizza” soon began to reveal itself: The duck confit and garlic sausage would garnish the pizza, of course, but the white beans themselves would comprise the sauce, in the form of a light puree. More than that, I realized that this pizza should even feature breadcrumbs, a nice detail that could really help to spin a crispy, thin-crust pizza even further into cassoulet territory. I figured, why not see how it all turns out? With enough attention to detail, and with enough duck confit, how could it not be delicious? Someone had to do it. So here it is, folks, the prototype for cassoulet pizza. Enjoy.

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It all begins with duck legs, pictured below in their raw splendor, and soon to become duck confit. I say “soon,” but at the very least, duck confit requires upwards of eight, 10, or even 12 hours of cooking time, not to mention an overnight “curing” session (not a true “cure” by definition, but along the same lines). It’s a slight commitment, but it’s also a process that requires almost no technical skill, just patience, and the reward is indeed epic: If you’ve never had duck confit, you’ll need to make up for lost time, and treat yourself to the tastiness. But before I get too far ahead of myself, I should also point out that some of the other pizza components will also require some day-before prep, including the dried white beans, which should be soaked in salt water overnight, and the pizza dough itself, which will develop a much more profound flavor if it can rest in the fridge overnight. In essence, Day #1 is all about ensuring great results by preparing the early groundwork for the duck, the dough, and the beans. And on Day #2, they all merge together in perfect harmony.

I think the skin that covers the ankles features a really beautiful design, but I'm just like that sometimes.

As a practical ingredient, ducks legs certainly aren’t a given, not even here in the Napa Valley where it often appears on restaurant menus. Compared with chicken (or even turkey, for that matter), duck is hardly your standard super-market staple, and last Sunday, I actually purchased the only four legs that they had at Whole Foods Market. Lucky me, and smart to call ahead (or perhaps it didn’t matter). The duck legs, pictured above, were sold as two per pack, and they were shipped frozen by the purveyor. I thawed these duck legs in the fridge, and when I finally removed them from their packaging, I felt that they looked really promising, with great color and no tears or holes in the skin. And it would only get better.

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Porcelain slipper: As we'll soon see, a snug-fitting dish with high sides means that less duck fat can cover more duck, and more thoroughly.

Classically, duck confit is seasoned before the cooking process, and not during. My guess is that the duck legs are traditionally cleaned before cooking so that the poaching oil remains sound, and is available for another usage. Whether or not this theory is true, I don’t know. But regardless, it requires for the duck legs to be seasoned the night before, and quite liberally. To that effect, I sprinkled a generous amount of salt and pepper in the bottom of a two-quart ramekin, along with several sprigs of thyme. I then microplaned five or six cloves of peeled garlic, and I coated the duck legs completely with this oily, garlicky balm. I then placed the duck legs into the two-quart ramekin, and I added an equal layer of salt, pepper and thyme over the top. Then, I refrigerated this preparation overnight, covered, and photographed it in the morning, above.

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Rinsed and well-oiled.

Duck fat is somewhat expensive, relatively speaking; it’s about $1 per ounce, if you can even find it (Whole Foods continued to impress, with plenty on hand last week). In the interest of economy, it’s best to prepare the confit in a dish that will contain all four legs in a single layer, but with very little room to spare. Pictured above is a standard two-quart ramekin, which contains the four legs, after I had carefully rinsed them of their overnight seasonings. For the photo above, I melted seven ounces duck fat on the stove, and poured this liquid into the ramekin, although the oil didn’t cover the duck legs completely (it did come pretty close, however). Since total submersion in oil is necessary for proper confit, I added six additional ounces of pork fat, which I had judiciously saved after rendering a pork belly for a previous recipe (the Morimoto 10-Hour Pork Belly, specifically). With the duck legs now submerged underneath a good half-inch of fat, I simply placed the ramekin in a 200ºF oven, and returned in eight hours.

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Eight hours later.

To be fair, I did check up on the duck legs a couple times during the cooking process, just to ensure that as they poached, the they weren’t boiling in the oil. As the duck slowly cooks, the fat should only bubble occasionally. As long as you have the temperature dialed in, I don’t think there’s really anything that can go wrong. Many recipes will advise cooking the duck legs for 10-12 hours, while I’ve seen other recipes that require only 2-3 hours of cooking. I can say, however, that after eight hours of poaching, the duck confit was beyond tender, and I really can’t see how two more hours would have improved the results. I’m all about going the distance with 12 hours, in theory, but I honestly believe that eight is enough.

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I always think of Han Solo at the end of "The Empire Strikes Back"...

For my pizza recipe, I decided to use one duck leg per pie; I cooled the remaining legs in their same cooking fat (strained), after transferring them to a smaller container. The confit cooking method has its roots in food preservation, and believe it or not, these legs will keep for a few months, if refrigerated in the fashion pictured above. Not only does the confit keep, but the kicker is that the duck begins to taste even better and better over time, especially after three or four months of aging. Talk about patience — I’m not there yet. I actually hope to use the remaining confit for duck rillettes in a couple of weeks.

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Click the image for a larger view.

Making pizza dough from scratch requires some tactile skill that can only be developed through practice. Achieving the proper moisture content within the dough remains critical, and there’s really no way around that one. The problem is that recipes aren’t always accurate, even if they may appear that way. The very foundation of pizza dough, which is flour, presents an interesting set of variables based upon its age and the ambient humidity where it was stored. A good recipe might get you into the ballpark, but be prepared to make some additional adjustments, as well. Once you develop the feel for the proper texture, you’ll always make perfect pizza dough, and that’s when it gets fun. Whenever I make a pizza, I always use the recipe listed below, which I’ve borrowed from Cook’s Illustrated (originally published in January 2001).

In the composite photo above, I’ve presented the various stages of pizza dough: (1) Having just scraped the dough from the food processor, it’s quite sticky and shaggy, but as you add additional flour during kneading, the dough will soon become much more manageable; (2) The pizza dough features the proper texture when it really wants to stick to your hands (or to the cutting board), but it just can’t quite manage to do it; (3) Once the dough has been kneaded and adjusted, dress it with a light coating of olive oil, and refrigerate it overnight in a covered bowl; (4) After an overnight session in the fridge, the dough develops a pleasant yeasty character. The morning after, I also allow it to come alive for a couple hours; (5) After the dough has risen, punch it back down, and divide it into four equal parts. Allow the portioned dough to rest for 10 minutes or so, then press each portion onto a sheet of parchment paper, and then press a sheet of plastic wrap on top of that; (6) As it’s rolled, the dough will remain sandwiched between the parchment and plastic wrap, making it sinfully easy to work with. Once the dough has taken shape, the plastic wrap is then peeled away, and the pizza can be dressed. The pizza will remain stuck to the parchment paper during the entire baking process, but will magically release at the first sign of a crust.

As for the baking method, there is no prescribed technique, except to crank the oven up as hot as possible, and to use a well-heated pizza stone for the task (30-45 minutes of preheating should be fine). Rather than rely upon time, the pizza is done when the crust goes golden brown around the edges. But to be a little more specific, I’ve found that a thin-crust pizza will usually bake within 7-10 minutes. Don’t be alarmed if the parchment begins to brown during baking, that’s perfectly normal. One great advantage to baking the pizza on parchment paper is that you can simply grab a corner of the parchment when you need to slide the pizza off the stone. I’ll usually slip the pizza directly onto the flipside of a sheet pan, and then from there, slide it onto a cutting board for cooling and slicing.

STANDARD THIN CRUST PIZZA DOUGH

Ingredients (makes four 15-inch pizzas)

• All-purpose flour, 20 oz, plus bench flour

• Honey, 1T

• Instant yeast, 1T

• Salt, 1T

• Olive oil, 1/2 cup

• Water, 1 1/2 cups (105-110ºF)

Method

1. Combine the first four ingredients in a food processor, and while the machine is running, add the lukewarm water, followed by the olive oil. Mix until the ingredients come together to form a ball, about 45 seconds.

2. Turn the dough onto well-floured surface, and knead according to the photos above.

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All Together Now (Clockwise from the Red Bowl): White Bean Puree; Comté Sourdough Breadcrumbs; Duck Confit; Duck Cracklins; Garlic Sausage; Rough-Chopped Arugula (Center).

The recipe I had envisioned featured an all-star cast of big, robust flavors. First and foremost, I had the duck confit, which I loosely shredded after eight hours of slow poaching. It was delicious and dead tender. However, I had also removed the skin from the duck leg, and I rendered it über-crispy in a nonstick skillet, over a very low flame. If you’ve spent any time in the South, you would recognize this as a cracklin, and you might even season them and eat them straight away. The flavor of a duck cracklin is intense and umami-rich — much more potent than bacon bits — so I crumbled the cracklin into pieces to use as a garnish.

It’s a rare post around these parts when pork receives second billing, but I haven’t really acknowledged the sausage yet. As would be traditional in cassoulet, I selected a garlic sausage, also known as Toulouse sausage. I blistered the exterior of the sausage in a saute pan, then I chilled it, and I sliced it thin. Keeping the center of the sausage rare helps to prevent it from over-cooking in the oven. That said, it’s nearly impossible to get nice thin, even slices on raw sausage (at least for me), which is why I blister it a bit first.

Since I really love the breadcrumbs on a cassoulet, I knew that I also wanted breadcrumbs on this cassoulet pizza. I knew that I also wanted the pizza to have a cheese component, just because. I decided to combine 1/2 cup of fresh sourdough breadcrumbs with 1/2 cup of grated Comté cheese, and one tablespoon of melted butter. Sprinkled liberally over the pizza, these breadcrumbs browned perfectly in the 500ºF oven, and actually exceeded my expectations by about a mile.

Before I discuss the white bean puree, I should also acknowledge the arugula, since everything else has been mentioned. Of course, arugula is not a classic component of cassoulet, but I felt that the pizza needed some color, and Ive always liked duck and arugula together. However, from a practical standpoint, I don’t care for whole leaves of arugula on pizza, because I’ve found them a little awkward to eat. I was thinking of a garnish more than a topping. Therefore, I chopped the leaves like parsley, and I sprinkled them liberally over the pie. End of story, almost.

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It’s fitting to close this post with the sauce, since sauce has always played such a pivotal role in traditional pizza. For my white bean puree, I didn’t have a recipe, but I’ve prepared Creole red beans so many times, I knew that a white bean puree would take several hours. However, since the duck confit takes eight hours to prepare, there’s ample time to get the beans working on the stove in the meantime. My objective was to produce a white bean puree that featured the same consistency of tomato sauce. I soaked 16 ounces of white beans in salted water overnight, then rinsed and drained them, and added them to a pot with five cups of fresh water. I allowed the beans to simmer for the next four hours, adding water back into the pot as necessary, in order to prevent scorching.

As the white beans worked up to a simmer, I added two diced shallots, a chunk of bacon from last week’s project, and a sachet of thyme, bay leaf and peppercorn (pictured below). After nearly four hours of simmering (and scraping the pot every 10 minutes for the final hour) the beans became starchy and soupy. I allowed the liquid to slowly reduce to a sauce consistency, and then I passed the beans through a sieve, just to achieve a perfectly smooth and sauce-like texture (as seen in the photo above). For the record, I only used a small amount of puree for the pizza, but this bean puree can freeze extremely well. Thinned with a little chicken stock and garnished with crispy pancetta, this puree can easily become a refined version of white bean soup when the weather cools.

The Aromatics for the White Bean Puree: Classic and Simple.

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For the pizza pictured below, I rolled a 15-inch crust, and spread about 1/4 cup of white bean puree to the edges. Before the pizza went into the oven, I added the duck confit, the Toulouse sausage, and the Comté breadcrumbs, but I garnished the pie with the duck cracklins and the arugula after baking. My impression when it was all said and done: The pizza was delicious, with full cassoulet flavor and character, and I was howling at the moon.

Ciao Revoir!

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Heritage Pork Belly alongside Heirloom Tomatoes, Bibb Lettuce, Sourdough Bread, and Kewpie Mayonnaise. Click pic for actual size.

I certainly adore a great BLT, but I can hardly ever bring myself to order one in a restaurant. I just feel that this particular sandwich, as tasty as it might be, is a little too simple for a restaurant menu (greasy spoons excluded). When I’m dining out, I’m looking to feel the love, so I’m leaning towards items that require a little more culinary skill, even at lunch. However, when I’m at home, I’ve really [... read more ...]]]>

Heritage Pork Belly alongside Heirloom Tomatoes, Bibb Lettuce, Sourdough Bread, and Kewpie Mayonnaise. Click pic for actual size.

I certainly adore a great BLT, but I can hardly ever bring myself to order one in a restaurant. I just feel that this particular sandwich, as tasty as it might be, is a little too simple for a restaurant menu (greasy spoons excluded). When I’m dining out, I’m looking to feel the love, so I’m leaning towards items that require a little more culinary skill, even at lunch. However, when I’m at home, I’ve really learned to value the quick and simple approach, especially when time is tight. Over the years, I’ve found that if you put in the effort to procure the proper ingredients, then the cooking component becomes the easy part, which is why the classic BLT is such a beautifully simple sandwich: Pick up a loaf of fresh sourdough, select some heirloom tomatoes from the local farmers market, and purchase a nice heritage pork belly for curing (the kind of pork belly that you could take home to mom). Sure, I get it. Rather than cure your own pork belly, you could easily buy a package of industrially-produced bacon instead, like most restaurants do. But then again, that really wouldn’t show quite as much love now, would it? And wasn’t love the issue in the first place?

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As I type this entry, I’m intermittently tending a smoldering charcoal fire, teasing out just enough smoke to flavor three pounds of pork belly, but without charring the meat itself (or the beautiful fat cap) on the grill. Slow-smoking a pork belly remains a very zen-like activity for me, and something that shows as much culinary care as making pasta from scratch, shucking English peas by hand, or stirring a two-hour roux. In terms of the actual work involved, I’ll admit that smoking bacon may seem to require less effort than some of these other examples, but I’m on the eight-hour plan tonight, and I’m going to have to babysit this fire every 30 minutes or so. Yes, I’ll be up a little but later than usual tonight, but that’s a small sacrifice for top-level bacon. On the plus side, I can knock out the bulk of this blog entry while I’m nursing the embers, and I can catch up on my beauty sleep while I’m at work tomorrow.

You're coming with me, pal.

Bacon begins at the butcher shop, at least for me. I don’t have the acreage for a Mulefoot hog, but do I know where to find some good pork belly. I usually work with a three-pound slab, which helps to yield consistent results. Ideally, folks who make bacon at home should keep a journal regarding the techniques involved. If you end up with something too salty, for instance, you can consider either a shorter curing time or perhaps a lower salt-sugar ratio within the curing mixture itself. There’s plenty of trial and error involved with making bacon at home, but once you learn to dial it in, the rewards will reveal themselves. That said, I’m always considering different spice profiles to try, so the fine-tuning never ends. But for the purposes of this blog entry, I’ll bring out an old standby.

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Bundle of pork belly joy.

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Love is the message: Much respect to the pig himself.

I presume that there’s lots of people out there who may have never seen bacon that wasn’t already sliced and packaged (I’m not judging, I’m just saying). At the moment, that’s the world in which we live, and I don’t even think that Michael Pollan can convince everyone in the United States to eat better, or with a clearer conscience. However, there are still plenty of us out there who might be willing to improve how we eat, and I think that increased awareness is the first step in that direction. At the very least, acknowledging the pork belly in its raw form helps to establish a slightly closer (and improved) connection to the pig himself, and considering that the poor fellow was slaughtered to produce this beautiful cut, it deserves to be treated with respect and consideration, and not just as a simple commodity to be cured, sliced and devoured (although each of these things will still occur, believe me). This respect is the love. How deep is your love?

• • •

The fabulous aromatics: Juniper berries alongside black peppercorns.

Spice is the big variable in the equation, and there are many directions to take, both classic and not-so-classic. If you want to experiment with something a touch more exotic, such as Chinese five spice, then please do. For this recipe, I went with a simple salt rub that consisted of (a) 12 ounces Kosher salt, (b) 4 ounces brown sugar, (c) 1/2 ounce black peppercorns, and (d) 1/2 ounce juniper berries. I ground the aromatic spices in an electric coffee grinder, then mixed everything together in a large bowl, being careful to break apart any lumps of brown sugar in the process. For three pounds of pork belly, I’ve found that this recipe provides just enough curing salt for the job. It yields about three cups in total, and I like to use 1/2 cup per side, repeating this process over three days.

I suppose I ought to backtrack a bit, in order to discuss some alternative curing methods to my basic dry rub. There are many roads that lead to bacon, and some bacon recipes may call for a wet cure — often referred to as a “Wiltshire cure” — which is essentially a brine. The Wiltshire cure is the traditional British technique (if you couldn’t already guess by its name), but the British also rely upon a different cut of meat for their version of “rashers” (bacon). With a nice fatty slab of pork belly, I find that the Wiltshire approach is far less desirable than a dry cure, especially since brining adds water-weight to the meat. I’ve dabbled in wet cures in the past, but not so much anymore, at least in respect to bacon.

As for the curing salt itself, there exists the option to include a small amount of “pink salt” (otherwise known as Prague powder or Insta-Cure) within the dry rub. Pink salt is one part sodium nitrite and 15 parts table salt, and the sodium nitrite preserves the bright reddish color of raw bacon by preventing oxidation of the meat (the nitrite breaks down to nitric oxide, which binds with the myoglobin in the muscle tissue). The addition of pink salt also gives the bacon a slightly different flavor and additional longevity. Most importantly, it helps prevent Botulism in smoked meats. However, given the method I’m using to smoke the pork belly, Botulism won’t present an issue, and so I’ve eliminated the pink salt from the dry cure (you’ll notice that the cooked bacon in my very first photo does not feature the same reddish hue of industrially-produced bacon).

• • •

Sugar, spice, and everything nice.

The photo above features the pork belly with its first dry cure applied. The salt rub has been pressed firmly and thoroughly into both sides. You might notice that I’ve placed the pork belly on a wire rack to allow for drainage. The belly will leech out a couple ounces of liquid during the first 24 hours, and much less liquid over the following two days. I’ve refrigerated the pork belly during the dry curing process, and the glass baking dish helps to keep things tidy during the process.

• • •

After the first 24 hours.

Although it’s a bit difficult to see, you’ll notice in the photo above that a couple ounces of liquid have collected overnight. Along the same line, the dry cure has now assumed the texture of wet sand, since some of the same liquid has leeched into the salt rub. Shortly after this photo was taken, I scraped the salt cure from the belly, and I briefly rinsed the pork under cold water, patting it dry with paper towels afterward. The result is pictured below. Over the next two days, I repeated the curing process, using a 1/2 cup of curing salt on each side of the belly, and rinsing and drying the belly between cures.

Underneath the rub.

• • •

Green bacon.

After the three-day dry cure is complete, the next step is to prepare the bacon for smoking. The key to achieving the best results is to first create a pellicle on the exterior of the pork belly, which requires another 24 hours in the refrigerator. During this time, I kept the rinsed and dried belly on a wire rack, placed in front of a small fan this time, which helped to facilitate further drying. A proper pellicle will leave the exterior of the pork belly quite dessicated, which inhibits the presence of spoilage bacteria. Furthermore, without a proper pellicle, the pork belly will get sooty during smoking. Once a decent pellicle has formed, the pork belly is thus considered “green” (unsmoked) bacon, and it can be sliced and cooked as desired. However, without some smoke in the flavor profile, it’s simply not the same.

• • •

Pork belly on one side, coals on the other side.

The smoking process requires a little finesse, but it’s mostly an exercise in patience. For this eight-hour process, I use a standard Weber kettle, with the charcoal gathered on one side, and the pork belly placed on the opposite side. I begin with a couple handfuls of charcoal, which I contain in a chimney starter until they’ve ashed over (usually 10-15 minutes). Once the charcoal is in place, I keep the grill covered, feeding an occasional handful of charcoal to the fire as needed. The key is to maintain an ambient temperature between 180ºF and 230ºF, which will keep the pork belly at 150ºF during the smoking process (thus ensuring proper food safety). I recommend using a thermometer during smoking, at least every once in a while, just to ensure that the belly itself is not spending any extended time between 40ºF and 140ºF, which is the danger zone for food-borne bacteria.

No thermometer on your grill? No problem. This after-market approach will work just fine (I drilled out the cork before pushing the probe through, much easier).

• • •

Cured, smoked, chilled, and sliced.

After an eight-hour smoke session, I wrapped the belly and refrigerated it overnight. With five days in the making, the bacon is now ready to slice and fry at a moment’s notice. Enjoy. I certainly do.

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Here in the Napa Valley, hosting a dinner party this time of year can be a mighty tall order. The problem is finding enough guests with free time, since so many folks in the valley remain hopelessly preoccupied during harvest and crush. Among most of the people I know, they’re either working long days in the cellar, or they’re working long nights in the kitchen (tourism in the Napa Valley also hits its peak this same time of year). No doubt, as September [... read more ...]]]>

The Main Event: Blackened Pacific Halibut with Crispy Pancetta New Potatoes, smothered in Sauce Anthony.

Here in the Napa Valley, hosting a dinner party this time of year can be a mighty tall order. The problem is finding enough guests with free time, since so many folks in the valley remain hopelessly preoccupied during harvest and crush. Among most of the people I know, they’re either working long days in the cellar, or they’re working long nights in the kitchen (tourism in the Napa Valley also hits its peak this same time of year). No doubt, as September yields to October, the typical Monday-through-Friday work schedule is a distant pipe dream for many, while eight-hour work days are also few and far between. However, in the spirit of Project Food Blog, I can definitely whip up some dinner-party-sized portions for my would-be dinner party. At worst, I can stuff myself silly, and still have a few left-overs for the week. I’ve provided the menu for the dinner further below, although I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself at this point. However, I should mention that the photo above is the main course for the dinner: Pan-Seared Halibut with Sauce Anthony, plated over Crispy Pancetta New Potatoes. You were expecting a pork chop, perhaps? Well, allow me to explain.

• • •

Some of the featured players in tonight's drama: (A) Soon-to-be butternut squash soup; (B) Pancetta and new potatoes; (C) Soon-to-be curried sweet corn; (D) Heirloom apples and tomatoes.

With fall having arrived just a few days ago, my inspiration for a dinner menu was to offer the last vestiges of summer alongside an early prelude to autumn. Sweet corn, heirloom tomatoes and peaches are fast moving out of season, while heirloom apples, new potatoes, and butternut squash are just arriving. It’s one of the best times of the year to produce really top-level, ingredient-driven cuisine. In fact, many of these ingredients can easily take care of themselves with very little culinary intervention, which allows for many different flavors, yet requires remarkably little effort during the dinner itself. The tomatoes, for instance, only need to be sliced and dressed for the panzanella salad, and this task can be accomplished the night before (simply add the bread component just prior to serving). The Waldorf salad can also be assembled ahead of time, and the peaches require only a few quick slices, followed by a drizzle of balsamic vinegar.

• • •

Pure as the driven snow.

Although this season’s produce served as the basis for many of the dishes that I’d planned, I still had to consider the protein. What would be the main event of the evening? Although my gut and my intuition would usually point me towards something more terrestrial, such as pork or beef, I actually prefer halibut for dinner parties, and I’ve compiled five good reasons to argue in favor of fish: (1) Halibut is delicious, and it’s one of the most approachable fish out there; (2) halibut boasts a wonderful texture, a vibrant snow-white color, and it’s not overly delicate in the pan; (3) a fish entree helps to significantly lighten a multi-course meal, especially when served in lieu of pork or beef; (4) there’s no “temperature requests” (medium, medium-rare, etc.) with fish, as there might be with pork or beef; (5) fish is lean, meaning that it cooks quickly.

• • •

The first rule of hosting a dinner party is that is has to look easy. Otherwise, your guests will be offering to help, rather than just relaxing for the evening. Worse than that, if you leave yourself too much to do on the night of the dinner, you’ll be scrambling to get warm food on the table, rather than enjoying your own shindig. With that in mind, I recommend a menu of quick-cooking dishes, a few cold dishes, and a couple of dishes that can be prepared a couple days in advance. I’m all about putting in the time and effort, just not so much during the dinner itself. In terms of my own menu, my quick-cooking dishes include the halibut, the curried sweet corn, and the pancetta new potatoes, while the cold dishes include the Waldorf salad, the heirloom tomato panzanella, and the balsamic peaches. The butternut squash soup and the praline crème brûlée both require the most prep time, but each dish can be prepared a few days prior to the dinner. I’ve posted my dinner menu below, followed by a few tips and observations.

• • •

• WINE PAIRING TIPS •

As crazy as it may seem, I’ve actually geared this menu towards white and sparkling wines, with the possibility of pairing rosé with the halibut course. It may be a sin not to serve Napa Cabernet at a harvest dinner, but the heavy reds will have their time in the winter; I drink white wines almost exclusively during the summer, so this dinner would present a terrific opportunity to sip some whites while the weather remains warm. If I could name some specific current releases for each course, I would pair a bottle of Roederer Extra Dry with the Waldorf salad, a Toulouse Vineyards Gewurztraminer with the butternut squash soup, an Unti Vineyards Rosé with the halibut, and a small glass of Dolce Late Harvest with the praline crème brûlée. As more of a nod to Napa Valley, I might also consider a Shafer Red Shoulder Ranch Chardonnay with either of the first two courses. The possibilities are endless. Drink what you like.

• SOUP & SALAD •

Killer Apps: Waldorf Salad with Heirloom Apples.

The Waldorf salad is an American classic, and a wonderful way to showcase Sonoma and Mendocino’s emerging heirloom apple season. Rather than dress the salad with mayonnaise, I opted for a dressing of Greek yogurt and some local Napa blackberry-blossom honey. A sweet start helps to rekindle the waning days of summer.

Butternut Squash Soup with Amorelli Croutons.

For me, butternut squash soup remains one of the quintessential dishes of autumn, and as this soup percolates on the stove top, it provides a fantastic aroma as the guests arrive. Even better, it allows for the second course to hit the table with very little effort. Of course, most of the effort in making this soup occurs earlier in the week. I like to slow-roast the squash as I make the chicken stock for the soup. Since it requires at least fours hours for a proper batch of chicken stock, I roast the squash at 200ºF for the same amount of time, allowing the squash to assume a rich, mahogany color. The amorelli “croutons” are small Italian cookies, feather-light and almond-flavored. They complement the flavors of the soup, and they also float nicely.

• THE ENTREE & SIDE DISHES •

Click the image for Thirsty Reader HD.

Getting the soup and the salad to the table is relatively painless, and the real challenge of the dinner is to deliver the halibut and the sides at the same time. Much like the Waldorf salad, the heirloom panzanella can actually be prepared a couple hours ahead of time, minus the bread component. As a chilled dish, the panzanella can sit quietly in the refrigerator until it’s needed, so it doesn’t really require any attention during pick-up. On the other hand, the curried sweet corn, the pancetta potatoes, and the halibut need to be prepared simultaneously. As the simplest dish of the three, I began with the sweet corn, which only needs to be heated through after the curry powder and the pecans have had a chance to toast in the melted butter.

Curried Sweet Corn with Pecans and Dried Cranberries.

Once the curried sweet corn had finished cooking, I held the dish over low heat, and turned my attention toward the pancetta potatoes and the blackened halibut. Since the pancetta would need some time to render its fat, I began this process in a cold pan while I sliced the new potatoes and dusted the halibut with a little Paul Prudhomme Seafood Magic. In order to decrease the cooking time of the potatoes, I had already par-cooked them earlier in the week, slow-roasting them whole alongside the butternut squash. This par-cooking technique also helps to eliminate the possibility of serving under-cooked potatoes, which is reason enough to adopt this approach. As I browned the sliced potatoes in the rendered pork fat, I blackened the halibut in a separate skillet, then focused my efforts on the Sauce Anthony. One of my secret culinary weapons from New Orleans, Sauce Anthony is a simple heavy-cream reduction with accents of lemon, shallot, capers, Cajun spice, and sun-dried tomatoes. I learned this pan sauce when I was cooking at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen several years ago, and it has remained in my arsenal ever since.

• INTERMEZZO & DESSERT •

Sometimes, two ingredients is all that's necessary.

I included balsamic-drizzled peaches as an intermezzo because I’ve been eating peaches this way all summer long. Served chilled, these peaches feature a refreshing sweetness and a palate-cleansing acidity that provides an apt segue to dessert. In fact, some might even call this dessert, but I wouldn’t want to be accused of half-stepping.

Grand Finale: Crème Brûlée with Pralines (lurking at the bottom).

Crème brûlée is a crowd-pleasing dessert that can be almost fully prepared a few days in advance. The burning of the sugar is the only step that cannot be executed ahead of time, but it only takes a couple moments to complete. I like to sneak a couple pralines into the bottom of each ramekin before baking. When your guests discover this little addition, it may just provide the final “ah-ha” moment that slays them at the very end.

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I had dinner at Ad Hoc on Friday night, and although I’ve offered tepid reviews of this restaurant in the past, I did have a great meal there, I must admit. The night’s menu featured an Italian-themed dinner, which actually began with meatballs, which to me was so much more interesting than salad, Ad Hoc’s typical first-course selection. After the meatballs, it was a perfectly-roasted half-chicken, followed by a cheese course, and about as much tiramisu as I could devour. The cheese plate was garnished with honey, chopped pistachios, and one of my favorite things in [... read more ...]]]>

Peach perfect.

I had dinner at Ad Hoc on Friday night, and although I’ve offered tepid reviews of this restaurant in the past, I did have a great meal there, I must admit. The night’s menu featured an Italian-themed dinner, which actually began with meatballs, which to me was so much more interesting than salad, Ad Hoc’s typical first-course selection. After the meatballs, it was a perfectly-roasted half-chicken, followed by a cheese course, and about as much tiramisu as I could devour. The cheese plate was garnished with honey, chopped pistachios, and one of my favorite things in life, Frog Hollow Farm peaches. July and August represent the height of peach season here in California, and seeing “Frog Hollow” on Ad Hoc’s menu reminded me to track down a few of these gems for myself.

Luckily for me, I can usually find Frog Hollow peaches at the Oxbow Market in Napa, and this week their produce vendor featured the Flavorcrest cultivar, a delicious, early-ripening, yellow semi-freestone peach. I first learned of Frog Hollow peaches when I was cooking at Auberge du Soleil. We sliced them and caramelized the peaches in sugar, featuring them as a garnish for our seared foie gras appetizer. Working the hot apps station at Auberge meant that I would get to taste these peaches quite a bit during the summer, and I was soon hooked. These days, I simply pair luxury with luxury by eating quartered Frog Hollow peaches with — not foie gras — but a nice, fancy 20-year balsamic vinegar. That’s it. Two ingredients. No cooking required.

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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.

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Many people may claim to love bacon, but I say that unless you’re willing to make it yourself at home, then it’s probably just infatuation. As my way to gear-up for the BLT season ahead (let’s just call tomato season what it really is), I’m going to spend the next couple of days curing and smoking the pork belly pictured above. Look at it. It’s a lovely porcine specimen — only a shade under three pounds — with a nice, uniform thickness. But despite these auspicious beginnings, this piece of belly is really no more than a meager [... read more ...]]]>

Many people may claim to love bacon, but I say that unless you’re willing to make it yourself at home, then it’s probably just infatuation. As my way to gear-up for the BLT season ahead (let’s just call tomato season what it really is), I’m going to spend the next couple of days curing and smoking the pork belly pictured above. Look at it. It’s a lovely porcine specimen — only a shade under three pounds — with a nice, uniform thickness. But despite these auspicious beginnings, this piece of belly is really no more than a meager caterpillar, destined to one day become a beautiful butterfly. Do stay tuned, and if you need your pork belly fix in the meantime, I spent five delicious days on braised five-spice pork belly last year.

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