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EPICUREAN THE YALE

Fall 2012

AN UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATION

Yale Epicurean

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CAREERS IN RESTAURANT OPERATIONS Hillstone Restaurant Group is a privately-held collection of upscale restaurants with 45+ locations in major cities across the country.

The uncompromising quality of our food, service, art, and architecture has set the standard in our industry for nearly three decades.

Recruiting for Management Training Program or Culinary Management Training Program Email rĂŠsumĂŠs to Keith.Clancy@Hillstone.com or visit us at Hillstone.com

1 | Fall 2012

Yale Epicurean

BRANFORD COLLEGE Master’s Teas November 8: Dr. Annalise Ophelian, 4 p.m.

Dr. Annalise Ophelian is a clinical psychotherapist based in San Francisco and the director of the documentary film “Diagnosing Difference,” which presents transgender perspectives on the pathologization of gender variance.

November 8: Master’s Dessert with James Fadiman, 8 p.m.

James Fadiman is a researcher of psychedelic substances.

November 12: Joan Wickersham, 4 p.m.

Joan Wickersham is the author of “The News from Spain: Seven Variations on a Love Story.”

Her memoir entitled “The Suicide Index: Putting My Father’s Death in Order” was a National Book Award Finalist.

November 14: Charlayne Hunter-Gault, 4 p.m.

Charlayne Hunter-Gault is an award-winning journalist with more than 40 years in the industry. She is the author of “To The Mountaintop: My Journey Through the Civil Rights Movement,” “New News Out of Africa: Uncovering the African Renaissance,” and “In My Place,” a memoir of the Civil Rights Movement fashioned around her experiences as the first black woman to attend the University of Georgia.

December 6: Dean Robert Stern, 4 p.m.

Dean, Yale School of Architecture All events occur at Branford Master’s House 80 High Street

FROM THE EDITORS | KATE HUH & TAO TAO HOLMES

DEAR EPICURES, Thank you for picking up the year’s first issue of The Epicurean, Yale’s food and wine magazine. In our fourth year running, we’ve been busy beefing up our online edition with news and reviews from campus bloggers; planning events to tap into the social traditions of eating; and collaborating with other organizations that share our commitment to making, photographing, and writing about food.

As you flip through political histories of America’s favorite snacks, expeditions to newfound highlights of New Haven’s restaurant scene, and re-creations of culinary discoveries made during summers abroad, we encourage you to do some navigating and uncovering of your own. Food grounds a vast network of cultural histories, philosophical probings, and economic trends; its legacy is of tampered traditions and experiments gone awry. Stock your college kitchen with seasonal ingredients from Wooster Square; consult our recipes and invent some of your own; explore the corners of New Haven cuisine; burn your tongue on the Farm’s woodfired pizzas; curl up with cider when the cold sets in—and write to us with your adventures!

Kate Huh Tao Tao Holmes Editor-in-Chief Editor-in-Chief

THE YALE

EPICUREAN AN UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATION

Editors-in-Chief | Kate Huh & Tao Tao Holmes Gastronomica | Sophie Mendelson Recipes | Lucas Sin Reviews | Ryan Healey Copy | Angeline Wang Business | Winnie Huang Design | Earl Lee www.yaleepicurean.com The views and opinions expressed in articles in this publication are those of the authors of the articles and of the editorial board of The Yale Epicurean, and not of Yale College or Yale University. All references to The Yale Epicurean refer, in fact to the full name of the organization, The Yale Epicurean, an Undergraduate Publication.

THE YALE

EPICUREAN AN UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATION

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FALL 2012 | VOLUME IV | ISSUE 1

“Clean, Fresh, and Simple”: Clam Pie with Jim Ormrod | Hallie Meyer

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Scallops: Behind the Scenes | David Goodman

9

Nando’s: Fast-Casual, Hot-Delicious | Ben Watsky

10

Politics at the Table | Kay Teo

11

Under the (Chef’s) Knife at Le Cordon Bleu | Rafi Bildner

13

Le Dîner Parisien | Earl Lee

15

Getting Grounded: Learning to Live off the Land | Katy Clayton

17

From Millet to Mini Wheats | Anny Dow

19

A Portrait of a Fine Diner as a Young Man | Spencer Bokat-Lindell

20

Navigating Yale’s Yogurts | Mengshi Zhang

21

In Spain, Simplicity Amid the Chaos | Sarah Strong

22

Reinventing the Doughnut | Maria Guardado

23

Zafra | Editorial Board

25

An Empanada Education | Katy Clayton

26

Budget Gourmet: An Evening at Caseus, Remixed | Emily Harris

27

Tasting Color | Rachel Schoening

29

Interested in contributing to The Yale Epicurean?

Email editor@yaleepicurean.com.

Cover photos by Earl Lee.

4 | Winter 2012

Yale Epicurean

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5 | Fall 2012

Yale Epicurean

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Hallie Meyer

photos by Angeline Wang

“Clean, Fresh, and Simple”: Clam Pie with Jim Ormrod

I

t’s noon on a cloudy October Saturday and James Ormrod Jr. (you can call him Jim) is assembling fake pumpkins and stuffed scarecrows in the front window of his family’s West Haven pizza parlor. The lunch rush happens later––closer to 2 p.m.––so he figures he’ll get going on the fall decorations while he lets the dough do its last bit of rising. Orange banquettes line the perimeter of a faux-bois tiled floor; plastic cups are set neatly next to jars of hot pepper flakes on spotless white veneered tabletops. It’s warm inside, and the smells of charred crust and sweet tomatoes play together in the air. Jim looks up from his pumpkin-arranging and fidgets a little with his Yankees hat, revealing a shaven head. “Hey, are you the Yalie? I’m Jim.”

Yale Epicurean

Fall 2012 | 6

GASTRONOMICA | HALLIE MEYER

Never once has my family driven through New Haven without stopping at Zuppardi’s to enjoy a few pizzas. Why wait in line at Pepe’s when you can walk right up to the counter at Zupp’s and order a juicier clam pie? Today is my fifth lunch visit, but it’s the first time I’ve ever met Jim face-to-face, and the first time we’ve spoken about anything other than what I’ll be having for lunch. He’s a short, built 28-year-old with wide brown eyes and olive skin.

After a quick, businesslike handshake, Jim starts walking back towards the exposed kitchen, and his tattooed arm gestures for me to follow. His aunt Cheryl, a smiley, raspy-voiced woman and the primary owner of Zuppardi’s Apizza, throws me a “Hi, sweetheart!” while lugging a giant metal dough hook to the dishwasher. The kitchen’s white tile walls are utterly spotless, interrupted only by two weathered and blackened gas-fired ovens. A stocky young man (Jim’s cousin, I learn) swirls ladles of 7 | Fall 2012

tomato sauce on unbaked dough atop a steel work surface in the middle of the kitchen.

And then, by the sink––there they are—

‘‘You’re having the fresh clam, OK?’’ wet, grey cherrystone clams, piled high in a white bucket. If you happen to be anywhere in the state of Connecticut, the clam pie at Zuppardi’s is worth a detour: tender, briny clam bellies, olive oil, oregano, and garlic, soaked up by a layer of chewy bread atop a crisp bottom crust. Jim gives a dimply halfsmile and says, “You’re having the fresh clam, OK?” I don’t object. So he gets back to his bucket of cherrystones and starts shucking, just as he does right after each and every order

for a clam pie comes in.

Jim was essentially born an employee of Zuppardi’s Apizza. Even as an 8-year-old he’d spend afternoons clearing dirty tables or washing dishes. Dishwashing in a restaurant kitchen? At age 8? “Well, mostly I just got in the way.” Jim played wiffle ball with cousins in the parking lot or paper football in the dining room among the feasting customers.

As he grew, so did his ability to actually work, and so did his work hours. The thought of getting his first job elsewhere never even occurred to him. “We’re Italians. So it just kinda works that way.” These days, Jim works full time at Zupp’s. “I basically failed out of UConn after my freshman year. So what else could I do? The easiest thing was to go back to the restaurant. I decided I’d work full time and make some money.”

On a given day, Jim will mix the dough, make the pizzas, work the ovens, maybe take some orders, or mop the floors. He’s alone in the kitchen from the restaurant’s Yale Epicurean

GASTRONOMICA | HALLIE MEYER

11 a.m. opening until about 2 p.m., at which point he’s joined by a waitress or two.

Today it’s his big sister; tomorrow it may be his older cousin. Whoever it is, though, chances are she’s changed his diapers at one point or another. The co-owners––Cheryl and Jim’s mom, Lori––always pop in before late afternoon to check up on the kids, fold some pizza boxes, or have a Coke with some regulars.

Every morning Jim mixes vats of fresh dough, lets it rise for three hours, and then cuts and rolls it to order. But, he insists, “the dough isn’t special—it’s just simple.” Or, as I like to believe, it’s special because it’s simple.

There isn’t any shortening or grease in it–– just flour, salt, yeast, and water. “And,” Jim adds, “it’s tap water, which is better than some fancy bottled stuff that has to cross the United States.”

At Zuppardi’s, the finished pizza pies are never quite perfectly round; they all have gorgeous charred knobs bulging from their sides. It turns out that Jim makes them that way for a reason. “It’s my dough code,” he explains. “If I see one knob on the pizza, it means it’s for here, none mean to go, two knobs mean well-done, and three mean lightbaked.”

Now the clams are shucked and the pie is baking. As we settle into a table by the window, Jim points to a black-and-white photograph on the wall. It’s a portrait of his great-grandfather, who in 1934 moved from Almalfi, Italy, to New Haven, where he opened an Italian bread bakery called Solerno’s. “No one really knows why he chose that name; maybe it just sounded really Italian,” Jim guesses. In the 1950s, his son (Jim’s grandfather) returned from being a cook in the U.S. Navy. He took over his father’s bread-making business, moved it to West Haven, and renamed it Zuppardi’s. It only made sense to call it that––Zuppardi was their family name, after all. The pizza parlor has been here ever since. Jim even uses his great-grandfather’s Italian bread recipe for the crust of his pies.

In high school, Jim was a ball-playing, womanizing prankster of a teenage boy who just barely graduated. But he wasn’t a true Yale Epicurean

rebel; instead of getting drunk and driving around in pick-up trucks Saturday nights, he’d work the ovens at Zuppardi’s. Straight off school and baseball practice, he would head to the restaurant to get in a few hours of work. After high school came college at UConn, but the timing just wasn’t right, and he dropped out after his freshman year.

“I was really bad in college. I just didn’t do anything. So I stopped going.” He is silent for a moment and then adds, “I mean, when I tell you I was a terrible, terrible student…”

Jim cups the front of his baseball cap with both hands and shakes his head.

The next four years brought a full-time

‘‘I’m conscious of the ambiguity of my identity." work schedule at Zuppardi’s. Jim started making enough money to really start his own life; he bought his own place, a new truck, a dog. “I honestly believed that those were the things that would make me happy,” he recalls.

But after four years of the same, something felt empty. Jim admits that he resented his younger self, but, he tells me, “not enough that I didn’t want to do something to fix it.”

A few days after my lunch visit to Zuppardi’s, Jim sent a follow-up email. In writing, he seemed especially eager to tell his story. He wrote, “I’m conscious of the ambiguity of my identity. And now, as I’m trying to figure out what I want in life, I think that the best place for me to start looking is in a classroom.” So in 2008, as a 24-year-old with only his evenings to spare, Jim enrolled in a night course at nearby Albertus University: The British and American Novel. An English class seemed like a decent choice––there was no wrong answer in writing, right?

After reading “The Great Gatsby” and “Mrs. Dalloway,” Jim was hooked. When he wrote his first essay for the class, a comparison of Septimus Warren Smith and Jay Gatsby, he thought, “Hey, this is really interesting. Let me take more of this and make something of

myself.” Jim felt that he was taking a bit of a risk in writing about these two characters.

True, both are depressed individuals to some degree, but their reactions couldn’t be more different: Septimus recoils from the rest of humanity, while Gatsby copes by throwing party after party for countless people he doesn’t really know. “But,” Jim tells me, “what I discovered about reading is that there is always something new to get from it. I could read the characters however I wanted to, write whatever I wanted about them, and I felt good about it.” Now the timing was right for college. “It’s a lot easier to go back full force after taking some time away from your education to grow up.”

If things go as planned, Jim will graduate in June with a B.A. in English. After that, his dream is to receive certification from Teach for America. “I love my family,” Jim tells me, “but I don’t want to make pizzas forever. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I want to teach because I can do it anywhere.”

Jim gets up suddenly from his chair and runs to the kitchen to grab our pie out of the oven. I sit back and digest what I’ve learned.

•••• The smell of garlic and hot, salty bread pours off the top of the metal pizza tray Jim carries to my table. In one hand above his head, he balances the clam pie; in the other, a few lemon wedges on a paper plate. “Here you go.” He sets down the steaming tray.

“Those cherrystones are just begging for a little lemon on there.”

He pulls up a chair from another table, sits down on it backwards, fidgets with his Yankees hat again, and watches me dig in.

With its lumpy black crust and the artful restraint of its fresh topping, this pizza is at once rustic and delicate. “I think my philosophy on food can be defined by that clam pie: clean, fresh, and simple, with an overabundance of honesty and sincerity.”

He pauses, his gaze fixed on the pie. “I guess that’s how everything in life should be, now that I’ve said it.” Sounds about right to me.

Hallie Meyer is a sophomore in Silliman College. She enjoys cooking, canning, singing, running, writing, reading, sleeping, and dogs.

Fall 2012 | 8

GASTRONOMICA | DAVID GOODMAN

Scallops: Behind the Scenes

photo by Earl Lee

D

uring North Carolina summers, the beaches of the Outer Banks are the place to be, and seafood is the vacation fare of choice. Most of the seafood you get in the Outer Banks comes from the Wanchese Seafood Industrial Park. In the middle of this gigantic complex, you can watch boats unload their hauls directly onto the processing belts, a fishy smell dominating the air as workers throw seafood onto rusty machines. And after many summers spent visiting the park, I’ve developed a particular fascination with the processing of sea scallops.

When most people think of scallops, they think of the round, chewy shellfish available at seafood markets. Little do they know that these perfectly formed maritime 9 | Fall 2012

delights go through huge transformations to reach their final incarnations. First, scallops must contain a certain amount of moisture

Most scallops are actually small and misshapen and must be glued together. (around 80 percent). To achieve that level, processors soak scallops in polyphosphates and sometimes even inject them with liquid to give them their chewy texture. With all that moisture, scallops turn out being only around 6 percent protein—very low for a

piece of meat!

Perhaps even more shocking is the fact that most scallops are actually small and misshapen and must be glued together to form the perfectly round, large scallops usually offered at restaurants and grocery stores. In fact, producers of other foods, most notably meats, are also beginning to use this process to create new dishes including sausages and salmon filets. The next time you order scallops, or any meat for that matter, remember how much your dinner has changed to reach you!

David Goodman is a sophomore in Davenport College and a member of the club baseball team.

He frequently vacations in the Outer Banks and is an avid fan of the region’s seafood cuisine.

Yale Epicurean

REVIEWS | BEN WATSKY

Nando’s: Fast-Casual, Hot-Delicious

I

feel disingenuous returning from a summer abroad only to write glowingly about a chain restaurant with branches in the United States—but maybe that’s the opening line Nando’s deserves. My first experience at Nando’s, a fast-casual restaurant (à la Chipotle or Shake Shack) whose origins are in South Africa and whose menu draws from the Mozambiquan-Portuguese community there, was in Durban this past July; and it was followed, within days, by my second and third experiences.

The formula that brought me back so quickly is remarkably simple: perfectly cooked chicken, grill-blackened to a crisp on the outside but moist and succulent on the inside and slathered liberally with Nando’s signature Peri-Peri sauce. The Peri-Peri (from a pepper known as piri piri, pili pili, or, officially, African Bird’s Eye chili) gives the chicken a rich, smoky heat with four degrees of severity and can be purchased separately for use at home (highly recommended). It’s the chain’s pride and joy, and deservedly so; but to give the sauce so much praise feels Yale Epicurean

almost like a disservice to the chicken, whose preparation embarrasses every other chickencentered restaurant at which I’ve eaten, ever.

There’s something about entering a fastfood place and seeing actual chicken parts laid out on the grill, caressed occasionally by eager leaps of actual fire, that makes the Nando’s experience feel like a whole different ball game. Unlike certain similar restaurants in America that advertise their authenticity with what feels like desperation, Nando’s seems to assume that the taste will do their work for them—and it does. Eating an unadorned piece of this slow-cooked chicken can make the Peri-Peri feel like icing on a brilliantly simple cake—but take one sauced bite, and you can’t fault Nando’s for laying that icing on thick.

Serving their signature bird in quarters, halves, and wholes, to be eaten with knife and fork, Nando’s cultivates an atmosphere a little more sit-down than other fast-casual restaurants and promotes itself as a lively and convivial eat-in establishment. Its menu does offer a few on-the-go options, mostly

sandwiches and wraps, all of which use the same meat and sauce as their normal chicken dinners. If anything, though, the added accoutrements detract from the purity and uniqueness of the chicken experience; you can get nearly identical sandwiches almost anywhere else. If you’re looking for accompaniment, as I always am, skip the fries, which come a little too much from the mushy British tradition for my liking, and stick to the soft, flour-dusted Portuguese rolls or the grilled corn on the cob, which also comes with your choice of Peri-Peri. I’m told there are also desserts, but I’ve always been too full.

Nando’s operates two restaurants in Washington, D.C. and another six across Maryland and Virginia. For the more globally inclined, Nando’s also allows patrons who can document their attendance at every Nando’s on Earth to eat free for life—so I’d suggest you get cracking. It’ll be worth it.

Ben Watsky is a super-senior in Davenport College. He is currently at Nando’s.

Fall 2012 | 10

GASTRONOMICA | KAY TEO

Politics at the Table: The Origins of National Dishes

11 | Fall 2012

Yale Epicurean

GASTRONOMICA | KAY TEO

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photo by Earl Lee

Yale Epicurean

ow strange is it that something as primal as food could be linked to matters of national intrigue? I first stumbled upon this interesting connection a couple of weeks ago, when a friend’s question about the origins of tempura left me befuddled. I know the dish well––battered and deep-fried, yet crisp and light. But even though I’m Japanese and a longtime tempura aficionado, I had no concept of its history. Neither, it turned out, did my friends, though this heart-stopping (and heartwarming) dish is a favorite among us.

Curiosity piqued, I began to research tempura’s origins. The word “tempura” has etymological roots in the Latin phrase “Quattuor Tempora,” or “Ember Days,” referring to holy days on which Christians would eat only fish and vegetables. Portuguese missionaries brought the culinary technique of deep-frying in oil to Japan in the mid-1500s. In an attempt to curb meat consumption during these periods of religious observance, the missionaries taught the Japanese to batter and deep-fry fish and vegetables into the dish known today as tempura. The political back-story to this revered national dish is striking in a country whose denizens are relatively unconcerned with politics, especially in contrast to their obsession with food.

I immediately began to wonder if politics were involved in the formation of other national or regional dishes. Most of my random investigations turned up negative: paella— rustic and authentic; bulgogi—time-honored; Yorkshire pudding—origins simply unknown. So I turned to nations with transitional histories. In countries that fought to declare independence, I soon discovered, citizens used food as a means of creating a distinct sense of identity.

Thousands of miles from Japan in the heart of Delhi lies Teen Murti Bhavan, the official residence of the first Prime Minister of India. Removed from the small side streets and hot hum of Indian traffic, it is the birthplace of another well-loved dish: tandoori chicken. After the India-Pakistan split in 1947, each country strived to provide its citizens with a distinct sense of identity and culture. The tactics of Hindu nationalists engaged language (Hindi in India and Urdu in Pakistan) as well as food.

Involving himself in this effort, India’s then-Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru seized an impressive recipe of tandoori chicken from Hindu refugees fleeing from Pakistan. What better way of uniting people, he figured, than a plate of juicy, spicy chicken hot from a tandoor oven? Nehru proceeded to serve the dish regularly to foreign dignitaries such as President Nixon and Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, transforming the humble dish into an internationally recognizable symbol of Indian culinary heritage. Today, tandoori chicken is one of the most frequently ordered dishes in Indian restaurants around the

world—including several situated right here in the Elm City.

Another Asian country with a relatively recent and tumultuous transition period is Thailand. Now when you think of Thailand, you probably think of Pad Thai. Thailand, Pad Thai; Pad Thai, Thailand—we’ve been conditioned. This quintessential Thai dish conjures images of street vendors bronzed by the scorching tropical sun, tossing fish sauce, tamarind paste, bean sprouts, and rice noodles into tangy delicacies. Although the popularity of Pad Thai among foreigners and natives alike suggests a rich cultural history behind its conception, its introduction was, like that of tandoori chicken, driven by politics.

Plaek Phibunsongkhram, commonly known as Phibun, served as Prime Minister of Thailand from 1938 to 1944. During this time, he enacted many changes to spur Thai nationalism. In an inspired stroke, Phibun conceived of a unique national dish—a cross between soup and dry noodles—that was neither Chinese nor Indonesian. And thus, Pad Thai was born. To enhance its popularity, the government encouraged food carts to make Pad Thai and handed out basic recipes to Thai families. Beyond engendering a sense of nationalist spirit, Phibun also popularized Pad Thai to bolster the economy and improve the national diet. Despite the unlikely success of Phibun’s strategy, Pad Thai has indeed served its purpose of creating a distinct and unified Thai culture. Today, Pad Thai is not only commonly eaten in Thailand, but is also a staple on menus in Thai restaurants around the world, from Spain to Bahrain to Australia.

It’s sometimes unsettling to think about how politically driven basic social customs can be—including eating. At the same time, it’s also comforting to think about the power of food and its ability to bring together a broken group of people to create a sense of community.

If all this talk about food has gotten you hungry, grab a group of friends or, better yet, strangers, and try one of these iconic dishes for yourself!

What’s the best place in New Haven to try…

• Tempura? That’d be Miso (15 Orange St).

• Tandoori Chicken? I recommend Zaroka (148 York St).

• Pad Thai? Hands down, Jeera Thai (216 Crown St).

Kay Teo is a freshman in Davenport College from Tokyo and Singapore, arguably the world’s two culinary capitals. Although she loves eating food from home (tempura and nasi lemak, to name a few), she has an unhealthy obsession with Googling menus from various ethnic restaurants and trying different national dishes.

Fall 2012 | 12

GASTRONOMICA | RAFI BILDNER

Under the

(Chef’s) Knife at

Le Cordon Bleu M

y hands trembled violently.

My legs teetered and swayed. While I struggled to grip firmly my Le Cordon Bleu-emblazoned Wusthof chef ’s knife, I was having a hard time standing straight.

My ingredients, neatly laid out in front of me in silver mixing bowls, were completely hidden by brown paper towels. Tensely, I organized my equipment, sharpened my knives, prepared my workspace, and waited.

Chef Philippe Guiet, head of cuisine at Le Cordon Bleu Ottawa, glanced at the clock. In an accent as thick as heavy French cheese, he yelled, “Chefs: Start! Two hours until serving time! I want dishes that are hot, clean, and presentable. Lateness is not tolerated.” With this command from the Chef de Cuisine, our final exam had begun.

I was only two hours away from graduating with a certificate in French cuisine from Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Institute.

All that stood in my way was one dish: the classic French dish poulet sauté chasseur, or chicken with mushrooms and tomatoes.

As a vegetarian and someone who had never cooked meat before beginning culinary school, I found the intricacies of delicately deboning a whole chicken challenging. In fact, when we had first learned to make this dish a few months prior, I had messed up on a crucial element of the deboning process, prompting our instructing chef to write on the class white board: “Rafi is an idiot!” I’ll put it this way: Yale Epicurean

The French militaristic culinary training makes the American education system seem like a trip to Disney World. I’m not ashamed to say that I broke down (mentally and physically) more than once during my time at Le Cordon Bleu.

But back to the exam. When the clock begins (replicating a customer placing an order), the kitchen temperature immediately rises by at least 10 degrees; every burner is turned on, ovens are preheated, and 20 aspiring chefs scramble to start their dishes. After meticulously practicing the 14 possible exam dishes over the two-week reading period––they must be executed completely by memory––I knew what my timing was supposed to look like: Debone the chicken within 30 minutes, reduce the sauce, and assemble. Finally, I needed to cook the meat within the last 40 minutes before serving time.

I had no problem with the actual mise en place (literally, “put in place”–– essentially the preparation and organization phase of cooking). I properly deboned the chicken, transformed my vegetables into the various cuts for the garnish (a macedoine and jardiniere, or “cubes and blocks”), and heated the sauce. At this point, it was just a matter of cooking the chicken, preparing the final garnitures (accompaniments), and plating.

I learned not long into the semester that cooking in a professional kitchen is all about timing. You will never get the desired final result (“resooolt,” as the French chefs pronounce it) if you don’t time things properly. Therefore, I knew that I couldn’t start cooking the chicken until the last 30 to 40 minutes in order to achieve maximum flavor and texture. So I cleaned my station and waited for the clock to tick down.

At the 40-minute mark, I placed my chicken on the stove. Within a mere one hour of accomplishing a lifelong dream, I felt on top of the world. Despite every instructing chef yelling in my ear, “Rafi, you sure you want to do that?” or “That doesn’t seem right! What are you, an amateur?” in my ear since the beginning of the program, I was nearing the finish line. The only problem: My chicken wasn’t cooking fast enough.

“Ten minutes to serving; if not, failure!” screamed Chef Phillipe. But my meat was not fully cooked. As sweat poured off my face onto the stovetop, I glued my eyes to the digital thermometer indicating the internal temperature of the meat. Fifteen degrees to go, 10, five—finally, the chicken was cooked. About to pump my fist in the air, I remembered that my serving platter was a)

not hot (a requirement in gourmet cuisine: hot dishes served on hot plates, cold on cold plates) and b) not perfectly spotless (wiped down with vinegar for maximum shine).

With two minutes left to serve, I threw the silver platter in the scorching oven. But with my mind blurry from anxiety, I soon forgot about the dish and didn’t remember to take it out until the metal had reached a temperature of 250 degrees (way, way too hot). “Shit!” I screamed. No one looked–– expletives were a totally normal means of expression in the Le Cordon Bleu kitchen.

I rushed to get a new platter and blasted it with the culinary torch in order to warm it at least slightly. I threw the chicken onto the dish, glazed it with my sauce, garnished it with the vegetables, and placed a sprig of parsley on top. “Final serving time––get your dishes in right now!” barked the chef. I handed him my platter as the clock hit two hours and one second. I’d made it. My dish was in the hands of the judges.

Three days later, I walked down the aisle of the ballroom in Ottawa’s luxury hotel to receive my certificate de cuisine de base (basic cuisine certificate). The day only got better when I learned that I had passed my pastry course as well and graduated from cuisine at the top of my class: My poulet sauté chasseur had garnered a grade of 91 percent.

Coming into my gap year, I only knew that I wanted to attend Le Cordon Bleu to further a passion. I never would have imagined that it would change my perspective on learning, organization, and of course, the kitchen––but it did just that. I quickly discovered that cooking is not only about the final result (the dish you produce); it is a deliberate, disciplined process that must be executed with the utmost respect. While I’m not sure where my culinary school education is going to take me, I know one thing for sure: Cooking is the highest of art forms. The chef is creator, organizer, and soldier all at the same time—a true artist. And that is no easy task.

Rafi Bildner is a freshman in Davenport College. He started cooking scrambled eggs and Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese when he was 3 years old. Even after going to French culinary school last year, he names them as his favorite foods to cook to this day. He is also a passionate farmer and started an organic vegetable farm in Western Massachusetts in 2011.

Fall 2012 | 14

Le DĂŽner Parisien Earl Lee

GASTRONOMICA | KATY CLAYTON

Getting Grounded: Learning to Live off the Land

Y

ou don’t know a garden until you’ve seen it in stages—until you’ve wondered about its survival, known its failings, and had the chance to eat from its yield. You don’t know a garden until you’ve fought for it, thought for it—and then done it all again.

I didn’t really know the garden. But my dad did.

What I knew was the kitchen. I’d watched my mother cook for years and after a certain point, my interest in food transformed into a passion. Talk of menus, recipes, and ingredients arose every time I came home, and the focus of our day was the meal we’d make that night. This past summer, I was blessed with the chance to spend long, hot day after long, hot day in my home, my kitchen, my mountains—longer than I’d been able to spend there since I’d left for school. Best of all, we had my father’s spirited garden for a grocery store. And my God, did we take advantage of it.

Despite the budding popularity of the farm-to-fork movement, it’s hard to appreciate the exact level of work, creativity, and energy demanded day-to-day by that lifestyle until you’ve lived it. It’s easy to romanticize going local and eating organic before recognizing what must be sacrificed to do so. I’ll tell you that I wouldn’t trade my agro-culinary summer for anything; I’ll also tell you that even the freshest Swiss chard loses its appeal a lot faster than you’d hope.

No matter how many new ways we came up with to cook it—sautéing, boiling, tucking it into quiches and tarts—the prospect of eating the same thing for weeks on end was overwhelming.

I began to see that the way many Americans cook today is like bowling with the bumpers up or writing sonnets without iambic pentameter. It’s racing with a head start or playing by a referee looking the other 17 | Fall 2012

way, (cheating, essentially), because all of the ingredients a chef could want are available— always. Even where I live in rural New York, there’s an average, albeit overpriced, grocery store within a five-minute drive. At any time of the year, it’s possible to find fruits, vegetables, meats, and a multitude of other culinary crutches lining the shelves of our local supermarket. In deciding on a meal, we are typically limited not by what is actually available to us but by what we want.

•••• It was supposed to be a small garden, just a few raised beds growing the kind of vegetables we love. But as the stress of my dad’s job at his small school (with an even smaller budget) grew, working in the garden quickly became his therapy. Every phone call I had with my father from February to May evolved into an exchange of personal anxieties; the news about his blooms and updates about what I’d be cooking when I came home became the light at the end of an otherwise dispiriting conversation. As the struggles at my dad’s school took off, so did his plants. The weather that season was particularly cooperative this year, heating up and raining at all the right points. Even so, I’m pretty well convinced that the success of our garden was almost entirely a product of my dad’s intensive eco-therapy.

We ate like kings for the first part of the summer—but instead of endless platters of meats, we devoured bowl after bowl of vegetables. Meals we usually would have greened up with a bit of store-bought broccoli we instead piled high with kohlrabi, sugar snap peas, and impossibly large arugula salads. Later, the garden yielded tomatoes that soon found their way, in some form or another, into every component of the meal.

We were blessed with baby potatoes, new basil, squash, cilantro, garlic, and chard. Our hors d’oeuvres, dinners, and even desserts were incredible, colorful, beautiful, fresh.

Harvesting from our hillyrambling front yard, however, was limiting. The garden dictated the meal, regardless of our say-so.

It didn’t slow down, and it didn’t apologize.

We approached cooking and growing as two sides of the same coin: My dad and sister were the harbingers of nightly ingredients, my

mother and myself the hapless chefs. There was a detail to timing that we had to learn the way one learns how to swim when thrown into a pond. Losing lettuce and asparagus to “bolting”­––when plants turn bitter and begin to sprout flowery blooms––was at once a terrible waste, a loss, and (secretly) an enormous relief. Surveying row after row of sunny green leaves, we experienced both bliss and panic: How could we possibly use all of this up?

The summer my parents first moved upstate, more than 20 years ago, my mother went to the grocery store for a zucchini. A stranger stopped her at the shelf, saying, “Oh, honey, you must be new in town. Anybody with a friend has got more zuchs than they can eat right now!” She promptly led my mother out to her car and handed her one of the many in her trunk.

The thing was that while most people found themselves with an excess of one plantcrop, we had an excess of every crop.

In our plot, we had enough lettuce to feed a village; I would be lying if I said I didn’t get a little tired of salad, no matter what we tried to add to it.

When the vivacity of the harvest dies down, though, a whole reality changes. I know that come winter, my family will be missing the fresh life of the garden more than they could have imagined. Now that I’m away at school, I already do. The weekend I left, my mother canned her bright red tomatobasil sauce. By October, the pumpkins, beets, carrots, and potatoes will all be reaching their peaks––and I won’t be there to taste them. As this realization hits me, I find myself wishing that I had eaten just one more bowl of tiny red bliss potatoes, or even one more serving of that seemingly endless rainbow chard, when I still had the chance.

Katy Clayton is a junior in Davenport College.

She defines herself solely by her class year, college, and the firm belief that everything in life is better with a little salted butter.

photos by Katy Clayton Yale Epicurean

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Fall 2012 | 18

GASTRONOMICA | ANNY DOW

From Millet to Mini Wheats: The Evolution of Breakfast Cereal

photos by Sarah Jampel

F

ast. Sweet. Crunchy. Portable.

Reliable. Bite-sized.

Breakfast cereal is the perfect on-the-go morning meal, especially when you’re in a hurry to get to your morning classes. If you had a bowl of Coco Puffs or Mini Wheats for breakfast today, you’re part of the 49 percent of Americans who routinely start the morning with a bowl of cereal, and you’re contributing to the consumption of the nearly 3 billion boxes of cereal Americans put away each year. As third on the list of most commonly purchased packaged goods in the U.S. (topped only by soft drinks and milk), breakfast cereal is doubtless an integral part of American diet and consumer culture.

When and how did these strangely shaped flakes, crisps, and flavored puffs become a staple in our diets? It all began some 10,000 years ago, when Neolithic farmers discovered how to cultivate wheat, oats, and other wild grasses. From Babylon to Ur, civilizations exploded as a result of the steady food source provided by these grains. The Greeks relied on sitos, an olive oil-flavored cereal, while the festivals of the Romans served cerealia, a gruel of barley and oats, in honor of the goddess of agriculture. In fact, the word “cereal” is derived from the name of the Roman goddess of grain, Ceres.

Later, medieval Europeans downed boiled milk-and-wheat concoctions, and Native Americans experimented with a variety of corn-based porridges. The grainy gruels consumed by ancient peoples, however, were a far cry from our frosted flakes in cartoonadorned boxes. It wasn’t until American religious beliefs, technological innovations, and new scientific discoveries came together in the late 19th century that breakfast cereal as we know it entered the scene.

Modern breakfast cereal got its start thanks to a clergyman named Sylvester 19 | Fall 2012

Graham, a staunch vegetarian who urged the masses to eat only fresh fruits, vegetables, and a bran-based, unrefined bread product now known as the Graham cracker. Graham’s dietary philosophy stemmed largely from his belief that eating meat induced sexual desires, causing masturbation. Such behavior, Graham was convinced, ultimately led to insanity­­––­­a fate he hoped to avert through dietary reform.

Influenced by Graham’s philosophy, physician John Harvey Kellogg, a SeventhDay Adventist who also believed strongly in vegetarianism, began experimenting with grains at a sanitarium in Battle Creek, Mich.

In 1894, Kellogg and his brother made the first modern cereal product by cooking ground wheat into a dough, flattening it with metal rollers, scraping it into flakes, and allowing it to stand for several hours. His invention came at a time when America was suffering from a massive bellyache, induced by a diet consisting primarily of salt pork, whiskey, coffee, and grease. Kellogg believed that his lighter, grain-based invention could revolutionize old eating habits. He was right.

Early cereals didn’t have the artificial colors, flavors, vitamins, preservatives, and sugars that characterize most of today’s cereals, although the actual production process hasn’t changed significantly. The process starts with whole grains, which are crushed, ground, and cooked for several hours in a giant vat. For special shapes, the resulting solid mass passes through a cooking extruder, where a moving screw mixes in water, flavorings, salt, sweeteners, minerals, vitamins, and food coloring. Cereal can then take a variety of paths: being shredded by metal combs, toasting at high heat to make flakes, or cooling and drying before being placed in a very hot oven for puffed cereals.

After shaping, manufacturers add coatings

of vitamins, minerals, sweeteners, flavors, preservatives, or frosting. With current technology, the entire process can take as little as 20 minutes.

Breakfast cereal couldn’t possibly have taken off on such a grand scale without the help of icons such as Tony the Tiger and Cap’n Crunch. Not long after the Kellogg Company got its start, manufacturers began using a variety of advertising campaigns to tout their breakfast products as complete, quick, convenient, and tasty. By the 1990s more than a million cereal ads were airing on TV every year; only auto manufacturers spent more money annually on advertising.

According to a study by Yale’s Rudd Center for Food Policy and Obesity, cereal companies spend nearly $156 million a year on television marketing specially directed at children.

Along with Kellogg, cereal companies General Mills, Nestle, Quaker Oats, and Post Foods dominate the cereal market. In fact, almost all of the cereals found in Yale dining halls are produced by one of these companies.

Today, hundreds of cereal brands represent a whole spectrum of tastes, textures, and nutrients. When you choose which breakfast cereal to eat in the morning, take the time to think about where your cereal came from and what went into it. You may be experiencing a memory from your childhood, enjoying a simple bite of sweetness, or participating in a historic legacy of ancestral grain consumption. And although we don’t know exactly how cereal will continue to evolve, there’s no doubt that the future of breakfast cereal will be a sweet one.

Anny Dow is a freshman in Silliman College. She is passionate about breakfast cereal (especially Honey Bunches of Oats) and munched on five different kinds while writing this article.

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REVIEWS | SPENCER BOKAT-LINDELL

A Portrait of a Fine Diner as a Young Man

I

t can be difficult to justify the importance of one meal, and it was particularly difficult when our meal rang in at $70.

It was indeed a lot of money, and by far the most I’d ever spent on a lunch. But as foodies and cooks, my dining companion and I understood that the opportunity to visit what is arguably the best fish restaurant in the world was not to be refused. Le Bernardin has earned virtually every major accolade to be had in the food world: It has three Michelin stars, and every New York Times critic for the past 26 years has given it the paper’s most prestigious rating. Maybe it was irresponsible to use a hefty portion of my book scholarship to pay a restaurant bill, but if eating at Le Bernardin meant ordering one or two used textbooks from Amazon instead of buying them shiny and new from the Yale Bookstore, then I was willing to make that sacrifice.

This lunch would also mark one of the last times I would see my dining companion– –a good friend who is taking time off to volunteer in Ecuador, China, and India before attending Tufts—for almost a year.

Equal parts feminist, intellectual, foodie, and fashionista, she was as well equipped as anyone to understand the feelings of both luxury and guilt that accompany trips to restaurants of this caliber.

As I had expressed to my friend before our first course arrived, I was afraid that this kind of sophisticated cuisine might go over my head. I had postponed this meal for over three years, during which I had hoped to gain enough experience as an eater to appreciate Chef Ripert’s food. Scanning the menu, I was keenly aware that I had never tried octopus, nor did I really know what Peruvian chicha sauce was. But I also discovered that I had experience enough to recollect the flavor of a shishito pepper, vocabulary broad enough to associate “sepia” with cuttlefish, and knowledge sufficient to realize that the peanut butter “powder” in my dessert was almost certainly achieved with tapioca maltodextrin.

The food was spectacular. Though I could, and did, wax poetic about the best meal of my life, what an 18-year-old thought about a world-class restaurant is neither here nor there. I am neither rich nor powerful, and the price of the check was the only thing I had in common with the people sitting next to me. For a little over two hours, I was transported to a world where people seemed to effuse importance and affluence.

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“Madame, how was your vacation? Did you find any inspiration?” asked a waiter of the European woman in her fifties or sixties sitting next to us.

“Oh, yes. Yes. So much inspiration.”

To my right, a pair of businessmen in expensive suits talked loudly and crudely in New York accents, making sure to include a creative expletive in every other sentence.

“Oh my god.” The words barely escaped my friend’s mouth.

“What?”

I gasped softly as I instantly recognized the bright gray hair of the man in chef whites introducing himself to the businessmen.

Eric Ripert surveyed the dining room as he started to approach the lady sitting next to us. My friend and I looked down at our food, silverware trembling, trying to suppress the starstruck giggles one might expect of a 10-year-old Justin Bieber fan.

“I just read an article about how his eyes are penetratingly blue,” my friend whispered.

Chef Ripert seemed very kind, and I’m sure he would have stopped at our table if one of us had possessed the courage to look at him. Knowing that the head chef was in the restaurant, rather than reigning from some faraway office chair, added another element to the lunch, as did a tour of the kitchen which the wait staff was kind enough to allow.

For me, that meal was two hours of entertainment and experiences shared with a friend that neither of us are likely to forget.

I would never be able to explain to skeptics back home that the word “food” described my meal at Le Bernardin in the same way that “music” describes a Broadway show. And as much as I’d like to go to the theater twice a month, or even twice a year, my friend and I were, in some ways, the lucky ones.

The sense of wonder belonged to my friend and me that day; I may have been the youngest and poorest diner, but I was also one of the happiest. The moment you forget to thank the waiters, or are no longer excited by the sight of the head chef, or become so conditioned to the price and experience of fine dining that, like the men next to us simply having another business lunch, you refuse the amazing dessert course, is the moment when it all becomes ordinary.

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Spencer Bokat-Lindell is a freshman in Morse College who identifies more as a foodie and cook than as a food snob. He is a recovering Nutella addict.

editor@yaleepicurean.com Fall 2012 | 20

REVIEWS | MENGSHI ZHANG

photo by Earl Lee

Navigating Yale’s Yogurts U

pon scanning the yogurt rack at grocery shops nowadays, we’re likely to be greeted by rows upon rows of assorted containers. If your experience has been anything like mine, most of the yogurts look insultingly alike, with similar promises to benefit both our health and our taste buds. But all yogurts are not created equal. In taste, texture, flavor, and nutritional value, various types of yogurt—from glitzy Greek to humble, regular yogurt—can be wildly disparate.

What exactly is the difference between regular and Greek yogurt?

How about Mediterranean? Soy? How did so many types of yogurt even land on our shelves? The answer to that last question can actually be rather simple: If you’ve ever suspected that the mass-market cup of flavored regular milk yogurt you were holding in your hands was just so much sugar masquerading as a healthy treat, you’re definitely not alone. Greater health consciousness has pushed Americans to seek alternatives, boosting the popularity of Greek and soy yogurts.

Greek yogurt (sometimes called Mediterranean yogurt) is yogurt that has been strained multiple times, removing excess lactose and whey. The process lowers its carbohydrate levels, packs in more protein, and gives Greek yogurt its distinctively creamy texture. Soy yogurt, on the other hand, is made by culturing soymilk rather than cow’s milk. It’s a good substitute for milk yogurt, given its naturally low levels of saturated fat and lactose.

Here at Yale, we can find Greek yogurts such as Fage and Chobani, regular Dannon’s yogurt, and Silk Live soy yogurt. Which should we reach for? To get a handle on that question, I sampled some of the offerings.

Fage (pronounced “fa-yeh,” as its label insistently exhorts) is an authentically Greek brand, and its name, when translated, is actually a command for us to “eat!” I concur.

Fage Total Plain Yogurt is the best plain yogurt I tried. It has a lusciously thick, milky flavor, with a density that recalls that of a meringue—you could invert your spoon, and the yogurt wouldn’t move at all. Fage Total Plain Yogurt is also less sour than Chobani’s version of plain Greek yogurt, so it’s quite possible to eat the whole seven-ounce container without adding anything else.

If plain yogurt is just a little too tart for you, you can try other Fage flavors, all of which contain the additional ingredients in a side compartment, allowing you to mix them yourself. I particularly like 21 | Fall 2012

Fage’s Total 2% honey-flavored yogurt, a pleasant alternative for those who are tired of boilerplate fruit flavors. The honey in the side compartment adds an interesting note to the yogurt’s creamy flavor and obliterates all traces of sourness, helping the yogurt slide smoothly down your throat.

•••• Chobani’s 0% Plain Non-fat Greek Yogurt is less creamy and viscous than Fage’s version. It is also more sour and tart, so I’d recommend adding in additional ingredients, such as honey or fruit, if you’d like to finish the entire six-ounce container comfortably.

Though Chobani is currently the market leader for yogurt in America, I’d ignore market share on this—take Fage over Chobani, as Chobani’s slightly lower fat content doesn’t make up for its relative sourness and less creamy flavor.

Chobani does come in a rather bewildering assortment of flavors, running the gamut from apple cinnamon to (the somewhat incongruous) chocolate chunk yogurt. The flavors can be hit or miss, depending on one’s personal preference. Take pomegranate yogurt, for example: You may love it or hate it, depending on your reaction to its goopy seeds. You might also find that the honey-flavored Chobani lacks…honey flavor. Eat at your discretion.

•••• Dannon’s All Natural Plain Lowfat has a runny, crumbly texture—it droops off your spoon, doesn’t mix well, and noticeably lacks creaminess. Though allowances have to be made, given that this isn’t Greek yogurt, I would skip this one. On a tangential note, Dannon’s Plain is also the type of plain yogurt served in Yale’s dining halls.

•••• Silk Live! Blueberry Soy’s appearance isn’t exactly promising–– it looks like purple sludge with blobs of freeze-dried blueberries. This inauspicious start merely foreshadows the yogurt’s flavor, which is syrupy, with a dubious, artificial blueberry taste and a quaintly sweet quality reminiscent of soy.

Mengshi Zhang is a freshman in Jonathan Edwards College. She is always ready to sample any kind of dessert.

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GASTRONOMICA | SARAH STRONG

In Spain, e h t d i m A Simplicity CHAOS

by Sarah

Strong

pho

to b

I

stood in a small apartment kitchen in Barcelona, Spain, with my parents and a professional chef. Earlier that morning we’d visited the city’s famous Boquería Market to purchase enough ingredients for nearly 20 dishes—all of which we somehow managed to cook and consume in their entirety.

The market is at once a tourist trap and a resource for locals, but luckily, our chef knew many of the vendors and guided us to the stalls with the best products, ranging from cured pork (we sampled three varieties) to seafoods (we bought 10 kinds). Unfazed by the surrounding chaos, our chef guided us through the crowds to the stall with the best juices—rows of brightly colored cups brimming with freshly squeezed and blended nectars.

But back to the cramped apartment kitchen. As my parents and I chopped, seasoned, and passed ingredients to the chef,

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dishes of salt cod, clams, cuttlefish, prawns, and anchovies materialized before our eyes.

Although they were all delicious, our favorite dishes were the simplest ones: tomatoes rubbed on toasted bread and topped with jamón iberico; strawberries and donut peaches tossed with sugar, balsamic vinegar, and basil; and—my ultimate favorite—the tortilla española. A tortilla española (essentially a Spanish omelet) consists of nothing more than eggs, potatoes, and onions. The dish’s magic lies in its texture, which is perfectly soft, crispy, and fantastically greasy all at once. Frying potatoes and onions, covering them with eggs, and letting them cook until tender and fluffy is not a complicated or sophisticated process, but I devoured the tortilla as if it were foie gras, lobster, Kobe beef, and the latest dish at elBulli all rolled into one. I no longer cared about the four kinds of seafood to my right or the handpounded shrimp carpaccio to my left. All I

yS

ara

hS

wanted w a s another bite of the crunchy, salty, fluffy goodness before me. My summer adventure in Spain left me with memories of fantastical dishes contrived of pig’s tail and stingray—but the taste still lingering on my tongue two months later is that of the simple tortilla española.

Sarah Strong is a freshman in Berkeley College. Photos of her food and cooking live at welcometothefoodlife.blogspot.com. She would love to go on a foodventure with you.

Fall 2012 | 22

tro

ng

g n i t n e v n i e R t u n h g u o D the

review and photos

by Maria Guardado

REVIEWS | MARIA GUARDADO

O

n a Sunday morning, clad in a black Orangeside t-shirt, an apron, shorts, and a New York Jets hat, Tony Poleshek explained to me that about two years ago, Orangeside Luncheonette began getting a lot of business from construction workers nearby on State Street. They began requesting baked goods, but pastries were absent at the time from the restaurant’s menu. Poleshek initially searched for a business that could supply him with donuts wholesale, but he wasn’t able to find one. So instead, at the suggestion of his wife, Michelle, he began making them himself.

Seven days a week, Poleshek arrives at Orangeside at 2:30 a.m. to begin baking the donuts. On a typical day, he makes between 20 and 25 dozen donuts. If there are any special orders, that number can increase to 30 or 35 dozen. Though he has a recipe book filled with over 160 different flavors, Poleshek said he can make anywhere from 12 to 18

plain––but all scrumptious. The man behind these donuts is owner Tony Poleshek, who began hand making the pastries about two years ago.

“We bake them fresh daily,” Poleshek said. “We won’t carry over a donut, so you’re never going to get a day-old donut here. We just don’t do that kind of stuff.”

At Orangeside, Poleshek takes a few extra measures he believes key to producing high-quality donuts. Apart from using top ingredients to create flavors, Poleshek also fries using double-refined vegetable oil.

He puts in fresh oil every week to avoid having to filter it for extended periods of time, which otherwise gradually breaks it down. By comparison, Poleshek said that when he worked as a teenager at a branch of Mister Donut, a popular chain restaurant comparable to Dunkin’ Donuts which also

Seven days a week, Poleshek arrives at Orangeside at 2:30 a.m. to begin baking the donuts. flavors a day. Six are standard flavors, while the rest rotate. Regardless, the donuts sell out on a daily basis.

One of my favorite breakfast indulgences is a donut. For a long time, whenever I craved this fried delicacy at Yale, I assumed that my options were limited to Dunkin’ Donuts or the prepackaged Entenmann’s donuts from Durfee’s. But then I discovered the square donuts at Orangeside.

Located at 135 Orange St., Orangeside Luncheonette has the look and feel of a traditional diner. It has bright tangerine walls decorated with black-and-white photos, counter seating, and a menu offering an array of breakfast specials as well as burgers and hot dogs.

The sweetest offerings on Orangeside’s menu, however, have to be the donuts. Inside a glass display case sit two rows of tantalizing squares––some jelly-filled, some glazed, some

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“had a high-quality donut,” the oil was continuously filtered and only changed once a month.

“The problem with filtered oil is like with your car––even though you’re filtering it, it still breaks down and gets bad,” he said.

“After a period of time, it doesn’t matter how much you filter it, it’s not good oil.

By changing it as often as I do, I think it provides quality.”

Poleshek also hand-cuts his donuts. This method requires less water to be added to the dough; as a result, the donut absorbs less oil when it is fried.

By hand-cutting, Poleshek is also able to give the pastries their signature square shape. He originally decided to deviate from the standard round donut partly because it was easier and less wasteful to cut squares, but also because he wanted to honor New Haven’s history.

“We are in a city where everything is based on the square,” Poleshek said. “Yale is built on the square method. It’s one of first cities that was laid out. It kind of all fit.”

After sampling a few of his donuts, it’s easy to see why. Standouts include the amazingly delicious almond butter crunch and the Snickers, which, like the candy bar, is topped with peanuts and drizzles of caramel and chocolate. The jelly donut, dusted with powdered sugar, is exceptionally light and airy and has a thick, not-too-sweet filling.

The chocolate peanut butter, maple walnut, and Bavarian cream flavors are also tasty.

And these sweet treats are reasonably priced: One donut costs $1.50, while a half dozen is $7.50, and a dozen is $15.

These donuts are so good that they’ve amassed a dedicated fan base. Poleshek estimates that 75 percent of his customers are local community members, while the remainder are people who come from outside New Haven to enjoy his signature pastries.

“I get a lot of out-of-towners,” Poleshek said. “I get people who drive in from Madison, Guilford, and Cheshire because they’ve heard about me.”

“New Jersey, Massachusetts,” added a customer who was eating breakfast at the counter.

“Yeah, I have a gentleman that lives in New Jersey that once a month comes up and gets some,” Poleshek continued. “And I also had some Harvard students who had been here for the football game, ate a donut, and then one weekend decided to come down one morning and get a dozen. And so they sat in a corner and ate a dozen, and then took a dozen with them. So I think that’s pretty cool.”

The pastries have become so popular that they’ll soon be getting a store of their own. Poleshek said that he is currently in the process of opening up a shop that will sell only donuts. The new business will be located close to the Yale campus and will have late hours and a delivery service. Poleshek said that he hopes to have the new operation up and running by this March—and I, for one, can’t wait.

Maria Guardado is a junior in Silliman College who loves baking desserts.

Fall 2012 | 24

REVIEWS | EPICUREAN EDITORIAL BOARD

Editorial Review:

Zafra

L

ast month The Epicurean’s editorial board had dinner at Zafra Cuban Restaurant and Rum Bar, located at 259 Orange St. Low lights, filtered golden-bronze through the 300 bottles of fine rum framed at the bar, played across our table’s orders: avocadomango salad, dumplings, ropa vieja, and the “Havana Triple-Play,” Cuban pastry cigars filled with sweet bean paste.

Zafra’s head chef is Tadahiro Hayasaka (“Kobe Bryant to our Lakers,” according to Dominic, the restaurant’s owner), who keeps guests on their toes by infusing his dishes with Japanese elements. “Are we authentic Cuban food?” said Dominic. “No—but we’re respectful Cuban food, with flair.”

We left with straining waistbands, aiolistained lips, and scrawled notebook pages tucked in our pockets. Now we offer readers our opinions on a few of Zafra’s many dishes: Sandwich Cubano - Kate Huh

The Cuban sandwich is, essentially, a grilled ham-and-cheese—a buttery, planchapressed version of that lunchtime standby, popularized in the early 1900s by Cuban immigrants to Florida. To modify the ingredients of this sandwich, however slightly, is to rekindle high-stakes sociocultural debates on the recipe’s origin and pliancy.

Zafra merges in molten layers the traditional ingredients (Serrano ham, slow-roasted pork, pickles, Swiss cheese, and Cuban bread) and flaunts tight counterbalances: Full-bodied Swiss is cut by the prickle of pickle, the sustained citric smack of mojo marinade; tender pork slices are cased in crusty Cuban bread, buttered both sides

25 | Fall 2012

and made traditionally, with lard. A classic compression of rivalries in flavor and texture, Zafra’s cubano makes a decadent lunch or standalone dinner.

Arroz con Pollo - Sophie Mendelson

Mounded in its wide bowl, the vegetablespeckled arroz con pollo stood out among the other entrees lining the table the way a canary might in a crowd of sparrows, its bright colors drawing the eye away from the mostly beigetinted offerings surrounding it. While many of the other dishes arrived adorned with elaborate garnishes, the classic chicken-andrice combo didn’t need flashy embellishments to give it a festive appearance—or flavor, for that matter. Although a bit on the salty side, the combination of savory rice, crunchy vegetables, shredded chicken, and a squeeze of lime came across as vibrantly to the palate as it did to the eye. Paired with sweet, saucy frijoles, a mouthful of arroz con pollo managed to hit all of the major flavor buttons in one go. The choice to use white meat chicken was perhaps misguided, as I found the bites of pollo dry when I’d hoped for juicy. Nonetheless, the dish managed to come across as at once homey and spirited: comfort food with flair.

Lechon Asado - Lucas Sin

It’s not fair to serve a food critic pork belly. You take a bite and sit there in flabbergasted silence as the meat quietly melts away. Your eyes close as the fat seeps out, coating your palate in unapologetic, caramelised indulgence. Marinade might help,

but deciding to braise pork belly in its own blissful juices is all there really is to do. In fact, pork belly might as well be the most exploited cut of pork. In New York, gastronomes flock to Zak Pelaccio’s Fatty Crab for his candied pork belly. David Chang’s pork buns are now legendary. And of course, Americans lather bacon on everything anyway. But we need to think about our pork bellies; we need to put thought and effort into the marinade, the cooking, the oven temperature, even the plating. That’s what Zafra needs. It’s not that Chef Hayasaka’s Lechon Asado isn’t mouthwatering like it should be. It’s that when you’re served a plate of pork belly that’s just a bit too straightforward, you’re only going to be disappointed.

Yucca Fries - Tao Tao Holmes

Pure, guilt-heavy goodness defines the glory that is a yucca fry. Impossible to devour only in the singular, these are like Lincoln logs of a more tropical clime, and a more edible type. The yucca fry, made from a dense, starchy root, takes the regular, good old potato French fry and elevates it to new gastronomic heights, deeply satiating our inherent cravings for heavy, wholesome food that will keep our gears going for days. Ten of these fat babies and I think I’d be fine in a weeklong apocalypse. Zafra’s yucca fries did not disappoint––they were rich, succulent, and just slightly salty. The earthy flavor and a dab of aioli sauce brought it all to marvelous completion––again, and again, and again.

Soon, my entire yucca log cabin was gone.

And my stomach? Feeling assaulted, but contentedly so.

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RECIPES | KATY CLAYTON

An Empanada Education

by Katy Clayton

I

t began innocuously enough––a convenient lunchtime invite from a friend, a restaurant around the corner in Caballito.

We entered to a low buzz of conversation and walked to the counter, ready to grab a quick bite to eat on the go. As I scanned the menu I paused on the word I’d been hearing so frequently this first week in Buenos Aires: empanadas ($2.50). I ordered two, bit into the pale, steaming crust, and wondered where these incredible things had been all my life.

In the remaining weeks in Buenos Aires, I became an empanada enthusiast, and I don’t say this lightly. Several times a week, sometimes several times a day, I’d pop into the nearest place and order one or two. It was an affordable habit, thank God. I could get a toasty pair for between 4 and 8 pesos—less than $2 for a meal that not only fully satisfied my stomach but also left me with a ridiculous fantasy of cultural capital. They were perfect, neat little packages of flavor, and though they varied greatly in shell and in filling, they were consistently delicious. I analyzed them mentally, imagining the perfect match of juicy fillings I’d had at Cuneta with the dreamy, flaked pastry crust at El Sanjuanino. I soon realized that I had developed a problem.

I was addicted.

I needed one every day to hold in my fist as I did my wandering and sightseeing in that incredible country; I needed it late at night to temper the Malbecs we drank everywhere we went; I needed its smell to call me from outside the university as we waited for classes to end. I was apprehensive about returning so soon to a country where many people had no idea what empanadas were––are; a country where people might even go so far as to tell me they’re called empañadas.

Upon returning home to the States, however, my fears (nightmares, really) of never tasting another empanada were alleviated. My 87-year-old grandmother came upstate to stay with my family for several weeks. With her came her caretaker, Leyda, easily 70 herself and still sharp as a whip.

Leyda is from the Dominican Republic, and her specialty is Dominican empanadas. I was thrilled. We bantered in Spanish, she poked fun at my acquired Argentine accent, and we set to work in the kitchen while my grandma looked blissfully on. Leyda made me feel as if I had an abuela as well as a grandmother, and though we lacked history we made up Yale Epicurean

for it in shared kitchen experiences. She had never written her recipe down before, but she showed me every step as I took careful notes.

Leyda’s empanadas are a little different in style from the Argentine ones to which I was introduced, but they are no less delicious.

I must warn that she threw in ingredients to taste, having always cooked from memory; but when I finally asked if I could write down her methods, she was thrilled—and asked me to make copies for her sons, who’d been asking for years.

Leyda’s Empanadas

Dough: • 4 ½ cups flour • 1 tbsp. sugar • ½ tbsp. baking powder • 2 tsp. salt • ½ cup milk • ½ cup butter • 2 eggs • 2 tbsp. canola or corn oil 1. Mix together all dry ingredients in a large bowl. Form a hole in the middle.

2. Microwave milk and butter in a separate dish until butter is melted.

Beat both eggs into the milk mixture.

3. Pour the milk/butter/egg mixture slowly, in sections, into the hole in the middle of the dry ingredients.

Stir with a hand or a large wide spatula. Mix until fully combined.

Knead with your palms until bouncy to the touch, but be careful not to over knead.

4. Let sit, covered and in bowl, for at least 3 hours.

Filling: Everything in the marinade can be done to taste. Feel free to add hot pepper in place of bell pepper for more spice or more lemon in place of the orange for acidity.

• • • • •

1 large onion 1 green bell pepper 1 red bell pepper 2-3 medium-sized tomatoes 4-6 cloves garlic, minced

• • • • • • • • • • • •

2 tbsp. cilantro 1 tsp. cayenne pepper 1 tsp. paprika 1 tsp. (dried) oregano Handful of basil leaves ½ cup of green olives, with liquid ¼ cup lemon juice ¼ cup orange or pineapple juice ½ cup olive oil 4 pounds chicken Hardboiled eggs (optional) Golden raisins (optional)

1. Chop the onions, bell peppers, and tomatoes into small chunks.

2. Mix all together and let chicken marinate in the refrigerator overnight. Make sure there is enough liquid from the various juices for the breasts to be covered.

3. Transfer everything to a stovetopsafe pot or Dutch oven.

4. Bring to a light boil and then reduce heat and allow to simmer, covered, for 1 to 3 hours (the longer it simmers, the easier it will be to shred).

5. Remove from heat and allow everything to cool completely.

When cooled, remove chicken from liquid and shred between two forks into a separate dish. At this point, add optional eggs/raisins.

Forming the Empanadas: 1. Roll out the dough, in sections, to 1/4- to 1/8-inch thickness.

2. Cut dough, using a bowl or a knife, into approximately 6-inch diameter circles and place rounds on wax paper.

3. Place 1 to 2 heaping tablespoons of shredded chicken onto half of the dough circle, being careful to maintain roughly a ½-inch border around the edges.

4. Fold over other half of dough, and crimp closed, tightly, using the tongs of a fork.

5. Fry in batches of 3 or 4 for about 3 minutes on each side in canola oil over medium heat until golden brown.

6. Thank Leyda.

Fall 2012 | 26

RECIPES | EMILY HARRIS

C

ompared to most college towns, New Haven is a gastronomic hotbed. A walk down Chapel or Temple Street reveals dozens of upscale eateries, tempting us with tastes of faraway lands and reinvented classics.

If you’re anything like me, the limiting factor to eating well in New Haven lies in a small budget, not in small tastes.

As the last of the sunny days gave way to New Haven’s distinctive chill, I once again found myself splurging, this time on an appropriately autumnal dinner at Caseus Fromagerie Bistro at 93 Whitney Ave. Caseus’ cozy, locavore vibe is a perfect match for its rich, cheesy menu, a blend of French classics such as moules frites and more humble favorites including mac and cheese. Placated by abundant cheese and wine, the crowd at Caseus eats for pleasurable escape.

Seated across from the kitchen, I watched longingly as dish after dish emerged and made its way to a dimly lit, sparsely adorned wooden table. I myself opted for Onion Soup Gratinée and the special: grilled pork loin, served with light mashed potatoes and sliced apples caramelized in a warm ginger vinaigrette. How I wish I could eat here every day.

Unfortunately, my wallet doesn’t agree—the evening set me back nearly $40 (before tax and tip). So in the name of budget foodies everywhere, I made it my mission to head to the kitchen and recreate this luscious evening. Though cooking in a college kitchen lacks the ambiance of a night on the town, watching the flavors of the meal develop is like culinary foreplay. Certainly, under the musk of tender candlelight and a gentle playlist, cooking at home can be a relaxing way to reconnect with your food. While Caseus may open doors to local comfort food, a real sense of comfort lies in homemade recreations.

Sensual, satisfying, and simple—and savored in pajamas.

French Onion Soup Gratinée

• • • • •

photo by Ruoxi Yu

Budget Gourmet: An Evening at Caseus, Remixed

27 | Fall 2012

2 or 3 large Vidalia onions, sliced into thin rings ¼ cup butter 2 tbsp. flour Baguette slices (toasted) Swiss cheese, grated (Gruyere is classic; deli slices work just as well)

1. Heat butter in a large pot, add onions, and cover with a lid. Let them sweat at medium-low for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. After the first 10 minutes, remove the lid and continue cooking the onions until they are brown and caramelized. (If they need some help, a splash of balsamic vinegar should do the trick.) Stir often, scraping the bottom of the pot to prevent any burning.

2. In another pot, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil. After about an hour, the onions should be a caramelized dark brown. Add the flour and stir quickly to keep it from sticking. After a minute or so, add a ladle or two of boiling water and continue stirring. Once integrated, add the remaining water. Reduce soup to about ¾ its original volume. Add salt and pepper to taste.

3. Distribute the soup into ovenproof bowls or mugs. Float a slice of toasted baguette on top of each bowl and cover with cheese. Place in oven and broil on high until cheese is bubbly and browned. Serve immediately—you won’t want to wait!

Yale Epicurean

RECIPES | EMILY HARRIS

Pork Chops, served with Tangy Mashed Potatoes and Caramelized Gingered Apples

• • • • • • • • • • • •

1½ pounds small Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and sliced into quarters 1 cup plain Greek yogurt or sour cream 3 firm apples, peeled and sliced into ¼-inch wedges 1 tsp. cinnamon ½ tsp. powdered ginger 1 tbsp. sugar 3 tbsp. butter, divided Pork chops (look for a relatively thin, bone-in cut) ½ cup flour 1 tbsp. salt ½ tsp. pepper ½ cup canola oil

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Place potatoes in a large pot and cover with water. Bring to a rapid boil, cover pot, and cook for 15 minutes or until fork tender.

2. Drain and mash potatoes with a large fork or potato masher while gradually adding the yogurt. Add butter and salt to taste.

3. Meanwhile, place apples in bowl and mix with cinnamon, ginger, sugar, and 2 teaspoons of salt. Heat 2 tablespoons of butter in skillet over medium heat and sauté apples for 5 minutes. Place apples in a single layer onto a baking sheet and bake for 25 minutes or until softened and caramelized on the outside.

4. While the apples are baking, rinse pork chops, pat dry with paper towel, and salt and pepper both sides. Combine flour, remaining salt, and pepper. Dredge each side of the pork chops in this flour mixture, then set aside on a plate.

Heat canola oil over medium to medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons of butter.

5. When butter is melted and butter/oil mixture is hot, cook pork chops, 4 to 5 minutes on the first side and 2 to 3 minutes on the other side, or until golden brown and juices run clear when a knife is inserted in the center. Remove meat from the pan and allow to rest for several minutes at room temperature before serving.

6. Serve together, while warm. Bon appetit!

Emily Harris is a sophomore in Branford College whose favorite foods are cheese and cupcakes (though usually not together).

RECIPES | RACHEL SCHOENING

Tasting

by Rachel Schoening photos by Ruoxi Yu

A

ddressing the whimsical nature of color, the great Pablo Picasso once mused, “Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this?”

What caught my attention about this quotation was the musical quality Picasso associated with the visual world–– an evocation of synesthesia. The idea of inter-sensory perception might seem like fantastical poetry or, at most, a bit of inspiring philosophy; but this is reality for synesthetes. Some of these lucky individuals see color while listening to music, others while reading letters or numbers, and a few even while studying organic chemistry.

Indeed, the ability to perceive the world in such a fantastical way is something that leaves us common folk intrigued and admittedly a bit jealous.

Why, then, do a number of us without such abilities feel that color has some bearing in nonvisual situations? I think we are all, to some degree, synesthetes. But unlike our seemingly superhuman counterparts, we largely disregard the potential that lies in mingling the senses. But should we explore the notion that color is inherently linked to our auditory, tactile, and gustatory experiences, we might be in for a pleasant surprise.

To explore this link between the visual and the gustatory, I ventured into an experiment centered on the claim that ingredients of the same (raw) color pair excellently in dishes. This idea came from one of the chefs with whom I had the fortune to work this summer––Executive Chef Tim Smith of Wharekauhau Lodge in Wairapa, New Zealand. While assisting him with a cooking demonstration, I smiled ear-to-ear as he ended his presentation with this concept.

“Ooh”s and “aah”s were heard all around, while some of the more ambitious members of the audience tapped down the tips of their smartphones.

Since that day, that little bit of wisdom jostled around in my mind like a stone in a 29 | Fall 2012

COLOR

rock tumbler, growing smoother and more polished all the time. White on white, red on red, yellow on yellow…Over time, my thoughts became hopelessly attached to lines from a familiar Neil Young tune: “Green to green, Red to red, Yellow to yellow in the light...”

Could it be that color, the visual character of food, represented a neglected route to discovering taste, its gustatory character? Could Chef Tim’s color-pairing technique help us tap into our synesthetic side, to exploit the parallels of our senses?

Out of curiosity, I added a second layer to my exploration: What about the prospect of pairing ingredients of complementary colors (red/green, yellow/purple, blue/orange)?

If this culinary color theory worked, then it would allow us to create some unique signature recipes. But the best part was shopping. How exciting would it be to waltz through the aisles, selecting ingredients on the sole basis of color? Four ounces of one red and two cups of another red. Two tablespoons of orange and half a cup of blue. Of course, we should continue to use common sense and remember culinary fundamentals, but this was the time to play!

I, for one, had a blast during my experimental stop at Elm City Market. As I peered at the seafood through the glass, the colors seemed to demand that I find each ingredient its perfect match. Salmon called out for sweet potato, tilapia for garlic and parsnip. As I passed brimming bins of grains and beans, the whole wall seemed to light up.

How about that rich red quinoa? Add some red bell pepper, a bit of cayenne...and make it a burger. Yes. As I made my way to the produce, my shopping trip reached whole new levels. I was in a dream, swimming in a sea of color. A splash of orange bell peppers, a wave of ripe red tomatoes, the invigorating green of the

bushels of apples. I imagined the stately violet of aubergine alongside the playful yellow of heirloom tomatoes; I could already taste them, maybe over tagliatelle with fresh basil, lemon, and a white wine reduction sauce. The squash and pumpkins, their hues embodying the essence of the season, drifted, floated by. The produce stands were awash with the colors of autumn.

I would have liked to swim with colors forever, but the dull beep at the checkout brought me abruptly back to wakefulness.

Bags in hand, I power-walked back to campus and set straight to work. I decided to test out my theory on a couple of salads.

I like a salad flexible, so that the portion size can be altered to make it appropriate as either a side or a main dish, its components can be easily manipulated into a sandwich or a wrap, and the ratio of protein to vegetable can be fiddled around to make it more or less filling.

With my first salad, featuring seared tuna and grilled watermelon, I sought to explore the original claim: the monochromatic side of culinary color theory. This “red-on-red” dish pairs two seemingly dissonant base ingredients into a sweet, harmonious union.

The base ingredients set, how would I choose the other elements of the salad? I’d thought that I was basing these decisions on my own common sense, a kind of “kitchen intuition.” Little did I know that this color experiment would affect my decisions without my knowledge. As I unpacked my purchases, I found that, subconsciously, I had selected several additional red ingredients to use in the dish: red pearl onions, red pak choi microgreens, and mustard red frills.

Once everything came together, it became clear: Foods of the same color are made for each other (MFEO, for you ’90s kids). Granted, watermelon and tuna doesn’t seem a natural coupling but, boy, are their flavors marvelous together. As base ingredients, they did what they should: They gave the dish a balanced foundation while remaining in the spotlight. In this AsianYale Epicurean

RECIPES | RACHEL SCHOENING influenced salad, I wanted the focus to be on the fresh ingredients, and the monochromatic method helped me achieve this.

For the second dish, I applied the complementary side of color theory. A “blueon-orange” combo seemed most daring, so I chose smoked salmon and blueberry coulis as my focal components. I went about choosing the other ingredients based on what I’ve seen before as accompaniments to smoked salmon.

I decided to make this salad on a smaller scale, and it resulted in a sort of amusebouche––a complementary hors d’oeuvre, used to awaken the taste buds and give a glimpse into the chef ’s style. Switching to this style of dish last-minute made me recognize the advantage of cooking with complementary colors: They awaken and make statements. Ingredients that oppose each other on the color wheel make for bold pairings. Oftentimes, it’s best to keep these statement dishes bite-sized, and so amusebouche is a good way to go.

The verdict? Color theory as applied to ingredients opens up a whole new realm of culinary possibility. It seems that we are able to appreciate, albeit less consciously than true synesthetes, the bearing that the visual characteristics of food have on its taste.

So let us go forth as synesthetes in our own right. Today, we have unleashed our power to taste colors.

Seared Tuna and Grilled Watermelon Salad Red-on-red, an exploration of monochromatic color theory.

Makes 4 servings: • 1 12-oz. tuna fillet, rinsed • 4 cups seedless watermelon, diced ½-inch squares • ½ cup red pearl onions, very thinly sliced • 1 cup tatsoi microgreens • 1 cup red pak choi microgreens • 1 cup mustard red frills • 1/3 cup sesame seeds, toasted • 1 lemon • 4 tbsp. olive oil (or sesame oil), divided • 2 tbsp. kosher or ground pink salt, to taste • ½ cup plus 2 tbsp. ginger sesame marinade OR ½ cup plus 1 tbsp. olive oil (or sesame oil) • 1 lemon, freshly squeezed (should yield ~3 tbsp.)

• ½ tsp. lemon zest • 1 tsp. ginger • ½ tsp. ground pepper, to taste Yale Epicurean

•

1 tsp. kosher or ground pink salt, to taste

1. If you choose to use marinade, proceed to the next step. Otherwise, make a simple vinaigrette with olive oil (or sesame oil) and lemon juice. To these, add the ginger, lemon zest, ground pepper, and salt. Whisk together, emulsifying the oil and acid.

2. Put 2 tablespoons of olive oil (or sesame oil) in a sauté pan and place on medium heat. Put the diced melon in the pan and toss every couple of minutes. When you start to notice the sweet smell of the melon, the natural sugars are starting to caramelize. At this point, add a few liberal pinches of salt and continue to toss. When the sharp edges of the diced pieces begin to soften and the melon is simmering in its own juice, remove the pan from the heat and strain the cubes in a sieve.

3. Place a nonstick skillet on high heat. Liberally baste the fillet with either the marinade or the vinaigrette and place directly into the skillet. Squeeze a bit of lemon juice and sprinkle salt onto the fillet. The aim is to sear the tuna, leaving the center raw and succulent, so flip the fillet after 20 to 30 seconds. The exterior will be crisp and flavorful, and the juices will be sealed inside. Remove the fillet from the heat, allowing it to rest a few minutes.

4. Cut the tuna into 3/4-inch slices.

Place these long strips on the plate, arranging them as you will.

Sprinkle a bit of coarse salt directly on the tuna.

5. Drizzle a bit of marinade or vinaigrette directly onto the plate, ornamentally if you so desire.

6. Add the grilled watermelon, onions, various greens, and toasted sesame seeds atop the tuna.

7. Serve immediately.

Smoked Salmon with Blueberry Coulis

Blue-on-orange, a trial of complementary color theory.

Makes 4 servings: • ½ head red leaf lettuce • 4 ½-oz. pieces of cured, smoked

• • • • • •

wild salmon 1 cup blueberries 2 tbsp. sugar 1 lemon, freshly juiced (should yield ~3 tbsp.)

2 tbsp. capers 2 tsp. chives, chopped 8 sprigs dill

1. Macerate the blueberries in a nonreactive bowl and pass through a sieve. Add the sugar and lemon juice and allow to sit for 20 minutes or so.

2. Place the mixture in a pan and simmer over low heat until it thickens. Remove from heat and set aside to cool.

3. Tear off palm-sized pieces of lettuce, and set them directly on a plate. Cradle the smoked salmon in each lettuce leaf, and then sprinkle the capers and chives on top.

4. Once the coulis is thoroughly cooled, take it by tablespoonfuls and shape it into quenelles by shifting it back and forth between two spoons. They should end up having three defined edges and an elongated shape. Place the quenelles directly atop the salmon and slide a few dill sprigs beneath them.

5. Eat immediately, preferably before sending it out to your dinner guests.

Rachel Schoening is a sophomore in Silliman College. She is the granddaughter of a thirdgeneration Montanan cattle rancher––and a vegetarian. Her family finds other things to love about her.