Broccoli with Burrata, Pine Nuts and Warm Anchovy Vinaigrette

 
In the perfect universe that runs parallel to our own, I am an equal-opportunity eater. I enjoy lentils just as much as chocolate cake, will happily consume everything from chitterlings to gastropods with relish, and welcome any form of vegetable matter on my plate with the kind of joy usually reserved for finding forgotten banknotes in my pocket. And of course, the last thing I would ever do is risk losing my card-carrying status among the gastronomically-enlightened by not liking something.

In this reality, however, things are a bit different. The only thing I would trade a piece of chocolate cake for would be a bigger one, I have a serious aversion to anything I deem to be ‘too fishy’, ‘too gamy’, or ‘too chewy’, and well, let’s just say not all green things and I are friends. In fact, on that last point you’ll find the first and last thing I ever agreed with a certain former president of ours about. Unless you were living under a rock (or in another country) circa 1989, you no doubt remember the revelation that shocked the good law-abiding, vegetable-eating citizens of America no matter which side of the political divide they inhabited. "I do not like broccoli, and I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it," George Sr. was famously quoted as saying as he banished the green scourge from the White House kitchens. While parents fumed and farmers raged – and all the country’s democrats shrugged their shoulders as if to say, well we didn’t elect him – I couldn’t help but secretly applaud.

It’s a strange kind of détente, this thing broccoli and I have between us. I mean I don’t hate it in the way that I hate, say, Norwegian fish paste, but tolerate is not exactly the right word either. Cabbage, for example, I tolerate with no problem – I don’t hate it, I don’t love it, but I eat it without complaint when it’s there. Cauliflower, on the other hand, despite being a close relative of both broccoli and cabbage, I love – roasted, mashed, gratineed, whatever. Ditto with artichokes and fennel and spinach and about a hundred other types of edible flora. But broccoli is just so difficult; it always ends up either undercooked and stringy or overcooked and soggy, and those little tree-like tops are experts at sucking up voluminous amounts of cooking water which they disgorge on your tongue like a sponge being wrung dry when you bite down. And now that I think of it, a certain traumatic event at my dad’s house in which a sludge of boiled aphids turned up at the bottom of a bowl of organic broccoli probably didn’t help our relationship much either.

For years I only bought broccoli for two reasons: the first, out of some bizarre conviction that choking down a vegetable I don’t like brings me more dietary benefit than one I enjoy, and the second, when making cheese fondue (which admittedly isn’t very often), since those amazing liquid-absorbing properties shine in a whole new light when gruyère, garlic and white wine are involved. In recent years, however, its appearances on our table have been growing less and less frequent, as I realized a life without broccoli is probably not going to kill me, and is also considerably more enjoyable than I’d expected.

Imagine my surprise, then, when leafing through my copy of Sunday Suppers at Lucques last weekend, I stumbled across a broccoli recipe I actually wanted to make. And imagine my shock when, approximately five minutes after doing so, I discovered broccoli harbors a secret streak of unfathomable deliciousness, and all it takes to coax that out is a few minutes in a pan with garlic, chili and anchovies, a silky white crown of burrata cheese and a crunchy shower of pine nuts and toasted breadcrumbs. I mean really, who knew a broccoli dish could be so crunchy and creamy, so seductively pungent and so explosively flavorful? Mind you, I wouldn’t go so far as to give up my chocolate cake for it, but let’s face it, in this imperfect universe I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would. And the best part? Well, besides the obvious satisfaction that comes with being able to say for the first time in my life that I do, occasionally at least, like broccoli, there’s the satisfaction in knowing that old Mr. Bush and I have exactly nothing to agree on anymore. Oops…unless, of course, he likes chocolate cake too.

 
Broccoli with Burrata, Pine Nuts and Warm Anchovy Vinaigrette

Okay, okay, what is burrata and where can you get some? This and this should answer the first question, but the second is a bit trickier. If you live in New York or L.A. you’re in luck as The Food Section lists some local sources; if you live elsewhere, you may find you’ll have to do like me and use buffalo mozzarella (FYI: if you’re in the UK, Tesco offers a delicious and not-too-expensive buffalo mozzarella in the ‘Finest’ range). You should not, however, under any circumstances, use that horrible cheapo cow’s milk mozzarella that tastes like wet tissue paper; rather leave the cheese out entirely instead. Or maybe try your luck at something else, like a soft, tangy goat’s cheese? Whatever you do, just don’t let your lack of burrata stand in the way of experiencing this broccoli bliss.
Source: Adapted from Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin
Serves: 6 as a first course (or two very greedy people as a main dish)

3/4 cup (about 80g) fresh breadcrumbs (preferably from sourdough bread)
1/3 cup (80ml) plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup (70g) pine nuts
1 tablespoon flat-leaf parsley, chopped
about 1 lb. (450g) Italian broccoli, sprouting broccoli or broccolini, trimmed
4 tablespoons (60g) unsalted butter
2-3 anchovy filets
pinch dried chili flakes
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
1 lb. (450g) burrata or fresh buffalo mozzarella
1 medium shallot, sliced
juice of 1 lemon, plus more for serving
salt and pepper 

Preheat the oven to 375F/190C. Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a boil over high heat. Toss the breadcrumbs with one tablespoon of olive oil. Spread them on a baking sheet, and toast 8-10 minutes, stirring once or twice, until golden brown and crispy. Spread the pine nuts on another baking sheet, and toast them 4-5 minutes, until they’re golden brown and smell nutty. Crush half the pine nuts in a mortar and combine them with the whole pine nuts, breadcrumbs and parsley in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper.

Blanch the broccoli in the rapidly-boiling water for 2-3 minutes, until just tender. Drain and set aside to cool. Meanwhile, heat the remaining 1/3 cup olive oil and the butter in a large sauté pan over low heat. Add the anchovy and chili and cook 5 minutes, stirring with a wooden spoon as the anchovy melts into the sauce. Add the garlic and thyme and turn off the heat. The garlic will finish cooking in the hot oil. Pour out into a small bowl and season with a generous pinch of salt. Don’t wash out the pan.

Cut the burrata or mozzarella into 6 slices, and then cut each slice in half. Place the sauté pan over high heat. Add the anchovy butter, shallots, and broccoli, and season with salt, pepper and a squeeze or two of lemon juice. Toss well to warm the broccoli and coat it with the anchovy butter. Taste for seasoning and add more salt, pepper and lemon juice as needed.

Arrange half the broccoli on a large platter in one layer. Tuck half the burrata slices among the broccoli and continue layering the remaining broccoli and burrata. Shower the pine nut breadcrumbs over the top. Serve with additional lemon slices for squeezing.

 

Chorizo and Chestnut Soup 

 
Oof, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I mean, the new year has been around long enough by now that I don’t even catch myself scrawling a 7 where there should be an 8. In retrospect I probably shouldn’t have left you with a tale of food poisoning before going AWOL, but worry not, the two have nothing to do with each other. What I should have done was hang a ‘closed for maintenance’ sign up here for the first couple weeks of January – not site maintenance, mind you, but self maintenance. Yes, it’s true: as much as I loathe the whole if-it’s-January-it-must-be-time-to-suffer bandwagon, it seems I never can resist buying a ticket and hopping on. I mean, every yin has its yang, right? And to counter our holiday yin, whose highlights this year included meter-long bratwursts, zwiebelkuchen, glühwein, raclette, fondue, daily breakfasts of croissants piled high with every kind of meat, cheese and jam under the sun, mid-afternoon trysts with coffee and cake, and near-nightly ‘snacks’ of Turkish lahmacun and döner kebabs in the early hours after yet another alcohol-fueled reunion with long-lost friends, there now exists a drastic need for some yang. I haven’t even mustered the courage to step on the scale yet, though in light of the howls of despair that emanated from the bathroom when Manuel did, I think that’s probably for the best.

But as dire as the situation may be, there’s a certain four-letter word beginning with ‘D’ you’ll never hear uttered around here. For one thing, it makes my palms all sweaty. For another, I’ve tried plenty of those ‘D’s and have come to the conclusion that they’re all designed to function as endless vicious cycles: deny, suffer, relent, panic, deny, suffer, relent. Instead, what I try to do in January is clean up my lifestyle a little bit, you know in a less-of-the-bad-stuff and more-of-the-good kind of way, and most importantly, do it in a way that doesn’t leave me entirely miserable. After all, January is cold and miserable enough without having to contemplate things like Equal®-speckled grapefruit halves and fat-free salad dressing (though let’s face it, I would rather gouge my eyes out with a spork than find either of those on my plate at any time of year!), so I know if that if the new, healthier me is going to stand a chance of making it past February, what I eat had better be satisfying. And preferably, hot and filling. And that’s where soup comes in.

Since soup, at its purest, need be nothing more than a simple, well-seasoned puree of vegetables, it is perfect self-improvement fare. Slurp down a bowl at the start of every meal and I swear, no matter what else you’re eating you’ll never feel deprived. Of course I’m also happy making soup the main event, but for this role I prefer something a bit heartier. Some meat perhaps, and something starchy, and of course it needs to be full of strong, punchy flavors. Pretty much exactly what you’ll find in this soup, a fantastic recipe from one of my treasured Moro cookbooks. An inspired (and quite likely invented, but don’t quote me on that) juxtaposition of Spanish ingredients, the flavors work together beautifully; the chorizo gives it just the right smoky depth, the chestnuts add body and a gentle sweetness, and saffron and chili tickle your tastebuds and warm you from the inside out. It was filling, scrumptious, and remarkably healthy too, particularly after I impulsively chucked in a few handfuls of chopped leafy greens. You know, anything to make myself believe that I’m really taking this whole clean-living thing seriously. Which, on days when there’s soup like this on the menu, isn’t actually all that hard to do.

p.s. For more easy-peasy soup ideas, check out this ancient post of mine. I still swear by the method!

p.p.s. Hooray for us – we raised $91,188.00 in December’s Menu for Hope!!! Thanks to each and every one of you who helped make it success, and congratulations to Shuna, lucky winner of the Moro Cookbook trilogy!

Chorizo and Chestnut Soup

Did you know chestnuts have the least fat of any nut at only 10%, and that nutritionally they resemble brown rice? Yup, who knew they were perfect January food? Around here, January is actually a great time to buy chestnuts because they’re often marked down post-Christmas; I often buy several packages of the vacuum-packed kind to use in all kinds of things over the coming months. If you can only find fresh chestnuts, however, and don’t mind going through the whole cooking and peeling rigamarole, by all means feel free, but in all honesty, I don’t know if I would bother. Instead I might substitute a mixture of, say, cubed sweet potato and butter beans. It wouldn’t be quite the same, of course, but I daresay it would capture the spirit pretty well. Oh, and I suppose you’re wondering what’s up with the quantities for the chorizo. Well, the original recipe calls for only a quarter-pound, but in a moment of reckless abandon (and ’cause I luuuvz it so much) I threw in twice that amount. Living dangerously, don’t I know it!
Serves: 4
Source: Adapted from The Moro Cookbook, by Sam and Sam Clark 

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, peeled and diced
1 medium carrot, peeled and diced
1 celery stick, chopped
4-8 oz (120-250g) Spanish cooking chorizo (Portuguese choriço would also be fine, or in a pinch substitute any garlicky smoked sausage), cut into 1/2-inch (1cm) cubes
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
1/2 teaspoon chili flakes or cayenne pepper (or to taste)
2-3 canned plum tomatoes, drained and roughly chopped
1 lb (500g) shelled chestnuts, fresh or vacuum-packed, roughly chopped
pinch (about 20) saffron threads, crumbled
4 cups (1l) water
about 1 lb. (450g) fresh chard or kale, tough stalks removed, washed and cut into ribbons (optional)
salt and black pepper

In a large, heavy pot, heat the oil over a medium heat. Add the onion, carrot, celery, chorizo and a generous pinch of salt and fry gently for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally until the whole thing caramelizes and turns a fragrant golden brown.

Now, add the garlic, cumin, thyme and chilli and cook for a minute more, then add the tomato and, after a couple more minutes, the chestnuts. Give everything a good stir and then add the saffron, water, and chard or kale if using, and simmer for about 20 minutes, until everything is soft.

Remove the pot from the heat and with a potato masher, gently mash until the chestnuts have broken down and the soup seems quite thick. Season with salt and pepper and serve hot with whole-grain bread.

 

A Fruitcake to Love 

 
It sounds like a dream job, doesn’t it? Jetting off to exotic places, being plied with endless food and drink on someone else’s dime, being able to say to yourself you know, I really shouldn’t have that third helping of _____ (insert name of some fat- or sugar-laden local specialty), but what the heck, it’s my job! Sure you have to put some words down on paper about the whole thing when it’s over, but that’s a small price to pay for a job that never actually feels like work while you’re doing it, right?

Um, well, sometimes. Maybe most of the time. But as I discovered last week, there are also times when all that flies out the window and the job you’re stuck with resembles a paid vacation less than it does some milder forms of torture.

I’ll explain. As you know I do occasional writing for the fine British magazine Food and Travel, and last week I accepted an assignment that took me down to southern Spain, poking around the lovely, garden-fringed city of Murcia and criss-crossing some of the region’s fertile backroads. All was going swimmingly – the food was copious and fantastic, the landscape beautiful, the producers friendly and brimming with printable quotes. It was quite exhausting, as it always is – there is, after all, so much ground to cover and so much to eat and only a few days in which to do it – but it was certainly nothing I couldn’t handle.

But then the worst thing that could happen, did. I got sick.

I know, I know, there are actually many things much worse than that, among them plane crashes, bombs exploding, kidnappings, etc., but understand that those all would have the advantage of bringing the assignment to an end. Getting sick, however, did not. It just made the whole thing infinitely harder.

It happened at the end of my second day there. We had spent the afternoon eating tapas – from about a dozen different places – before diving back in and finishing off the night with a ten-course meal at one of Murcia’s best restaurants. I went home stuffed to the gills but otherwise feeling fine, and promptly went to bed. About four o’clock in the morning, though, I woke up in a haze, dazed and disoriented but knowing something was terribly wrong; I barely made it to the bathroom before my body began its eviction process of something it didn’t want in there. From there I spent the rest of the night huddled next to the toilet in agony – alternating between cold sweats, hot sweats, dizziness and nausea, and cursing my foodhardiness at ever agreeing to sacrifice the sanctity of my stomach for something as inconsequential as professional gain.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had food poisoning – I certainly hadn’t before last week – but after your body finally manages to get rid of whatever little beastie thought your digestive tract looked like a fine new place of residence, there is one thing, and one thing only, that you feel you will never be able do again. That of course is eat.

But that wasn’t an option. We had another three whole days of non-stop eating on the itinerary, and missing even part of it would seriously compromise the article. I had no choice – I simply had to soldier on. At our first engagement the next morning – a cheese factory – I quickly came to regret that decision, when, after showing us their facilities they passed around a plate of samples for us to try. Not wanting to be rude, I took a tiny nibble; moments later, in mid-conversation with the firm’s director on the benefits of small-batch production, I had to excuse myself in a hurry to find a place to regurgitate it. Believe me, I have never been so embarrassed in my life.

I did get progressively better over the next few days – my fever and nausea subsided and I was able to actually ingest things without fearing they would find their way up again a few minutes later, but my stomach was still not operating at anywhere near full capacity. It remained so sensitive, in fact, that I was only able to force down a few tentative bites at most of our remaining meals, something that distressed me as much as it did the generous restaurateurs who laid on course after course of their very best dishes for me to try, only to see them sent back to the kitchen uneaten. The irony, of course, wasn’t lost on me – here I was, being served exactly the kind of food I lie awake at night dreaming about, as much as I wanted and all of it free – and I was physically incapable of eating it. Life, you are sometimes very cruel.

But it all worked out in the end – I got enough for the article, and I even snagged a few fantastic new recipes in the bargain. I can’t say I left a very convincing impression as a food journalist (“Journalist? You mean that girl who puked all over our factory?”) but at least I can now sound convincing when I tell people that professional food writing is not all champagne and roses (or champagne and caviar, as the case may be).  As for the question I know you’re dying to ask – which restaurant was it? – I’m afraid I simply can’t say. No really, I can’t; we ate at so many that day that even attempting to point a finger would be pure speculation, something none of them deserve. I can recommend a visit to Murcia without reservation, however, which is a beautiful city, though I would advise a slightly less hectic schedule than I had. And if you’re looking for some tips on where to eat there, I think the February issue of Food and Travel should have just what you need. 🙂

*****

But oh, what is up with that fruitcake? Here I’ve enticed you with that photo and haven’t said a word about it. Ah, well you see I just couldn’t abandon you before Christmas without a recipe, or more precisely without this recipe. I’ve been dumping a lot of unfair abuse on fruitcake lately (even going so far as to compare it to subdividing bacteria, and isn’t that a funny analogy now in light of the story I’ve just told!), but now I’m standing here with foot planted firmly in mouth because I have found the fruitcake that all other fruitcakes aspire to be. No really, this is THE ONE, the fruitcake of my dreams. The secret, I’ll have you know, is something I’ll bet you’ve probably never seen in a fruitcake before. You see those little jet-black bits poking out here and there among the pistachios and apricots and other usual suspects? Those are olives, my friends, olives, and they are what take this cake from good to sublime.

I mean, olives in sweet things are nothing new around here, but still I never would have thought of adding them to fruitcake. Thankfully, though, there are people around like Elizabeth Falkner (of Citizen Cake fame) who have a bit more imagination than me, as apparently this was exactly what fruitcake was missing all along. Of course, when you look at the list of ingredients it makes perfect sense; after all, dates, figs, oranges, pistachios and walnuts are a near-perfect assembly of Mediterranean flavors, and even without the olives this cake would be pretty darn good. With the olives, however, it’s in another class entirely – all I can say is, if you think you’re a fruitcake hater, give it a shot. You may, like me, suddenly find yourself wondering how on earth you managed to have any merry Christmases without it.

And speaking of Christmas, since you probably won’t see me again around here until it’s long gone (as we’re leaving for snow-covered Germany tomorrow where – gasp! – we won’t have any internet access for two whole weeks), let me take this opportunity to extend a heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you, dear readers. Thank you for sticking it out with me for yet another year, for always leaving such witty, insightful and heart-warming comments, and most of all, for giving me a reason to hit ‘publish’ every week. I honestly couldn’t do this without you. May you have the most joyous and peaceful of holidays, surrounded by good food, good cheer, and plenty of people you love. And I’ll see you right back here in 2008!

 
A Fruitcake to Love

This cake was very good as written, but I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t find a few things to improve. Most importantly, I doubled the olives, because let’s face it, three tablespoons divided between two cakes is a leetle skimpy, don’t you think? I also added a few chopped dried apricots for tartness (though dried sour cherries would be nice too), I increased the liquid to make it slightly moister and I added an additional egg for stability. Oh, and even with the increased moisture and extra egg you’ll need to wait until the cake is completely cool – preferably chilled – before even attempting to slice it, as otherwise you’ll end up with beautiful mosaic-patterened chunks instead of the slices I’m sure you’d much rather be serving. Oh, and Elizabeth suggests pairing this with cheese, which I think is a fine idea, though rest assured it’s perfectly edible on its own too.
Yield: two 8-inch loaf cakes
Source: adapted from Elizabeth Falkner, Bon Appetit, December 2007 

1 1/4 cups (250g) chopped pitted Medjool dates
3/4 cup (125g) chopped candied orange peel
1/3 cup (50g) chopped dried Mission figs
1/2 cup (75g) chopped dried apricots
1/2 cup (125ml) brandy (alternatively, you can use half Nocello (walnut liqueur) or Frangelico (hazelnut liqueur) and half water)
20 oil-cured black olives, pitted, chopped (about 6 tablespoons)
1 3/4 cups (250g) all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup (125ml) plain whole-milk yogurt
2 tablespoons (30ml) olive oil
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks/175g) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup (150g) sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups (200g) coarsely chopped walnuts
3/4 cup (100g) shelled unsalted natural pistachios

Position a rack in center of oven and preheat to 350°F/175°C. Butter two 8 1/2×4 1/2-inch (21×11-cm) metal loaf pans and dust with flour. Mix the first five ingredients in a medium microwave-safe bowl. Microwave in 30-second bursts, stirring after each, until most of the liquid has been absorbed by the fruit (alternatively, heat mixture in a small saucepan just until simmering, then cover and steep until absorbed). Stir in the olives and set aside to cool completely. Sift flour, baking powder, salt, nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon into another medium bowl.

Whisk yogurt and oil in a small bowl. Using an electric mixer, beat butter and sugar in large bowl until blended. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in flour mixture in 3 additions alternately with yogurt mixture in 2 additions, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Stir in walnuts, pistachios, and dried-fruit mixture. Divide batter between prepared pans. Smooth tops.

Bake cakes until tester inserted into centers comes out clean and cakes begin to pull away from sides of pans, about 50 minutes. Cool them in the pans at least 30 minutes. Turn the cakes out onto racks, and cool completely before slicing. These keep in the fridge at least a week.