When the aroma of turmeric hits my nostrils, it immediately transports me to my grandparents’ house in Punjab, where my family spent many summers. Growing up in Bengali, I never saw fresh turmeric, but the plant was abundant during our holidays in Punjab. As my maternal grandmother Nani prepared traditional dishes, from paratha to pulao, her cooking filled the air with a warm, earthy scent. Memories of those meals linger in my mind every time I reach for this golden root today.

Known scientifically as Curcuma longa, turmeric has been cultivated and cherished for millennia in India. It is a foundational spice in Indian cuisine and lends a peppery aroma and sunny hue to curries, rice, smoothies, pickles, and so much more. The ancient texts of Ayurveda, the traditional Indian system of medicine, praised the ingredient—an excellent source of curcumin—for its anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, and antibacterial merits. (Pro tip: Enjoying turmeric with black pepper increases how much of the curcumin our bodies absorb.) Because of this, Indian families often incorporate turmeric into home remedies like haldi doodh, also called turmeric milk, a healing drink for nursing a cold.

Beyond its status as a culinary powerhouse, turmeric is also a prominent cultural symbol. It plays a role in celebrations such as weddings, during which turmeric paste is applied to the bride and groom’s skin before the ceremony as a symbol of purity and divinity. People even decorate the entrances of their homes with rangoli—turmeric paste shaped into intricate patterns—to invite positive energy and ward off evil spirits. The ingredient is also a potent natural dye that can impart everything from fabrics to doughs with a bright yellow hue.

Though an increasing number of chefs in the U.S. are making turmeric powder an indispensable part of their pantry, its fresh counterpart also warrants a place in your cooking arsenal. The gingery flavor and peppery quality are punchier and more robust than the dried variety, and I’ve found that this added brightness is especially noticeable in applications that involve cooking over low heat (think long braises and gentle steaming), or no heat at all (like pickles and smoothies).

When cooking with fresh turmeric, know that the ingredient should be sealed in an airtight container and stored in the fridge, where it should keep for up to two weeks. Keep in mind that many recipes call for peeling and then grating or cutting the root, so make sure to wear gloves to avoid staining your hands. When substituting dried turmeric with fresh, you should replace the powder with about triple the amount of the fresh stuff (e.g., 1 teaspoon of ground dried turmeric = 1 tablespoon of fresh turmeric). If you’re new to using fresh turmeric, or are looking for more ideas on how to put it to work in the kitchen, here are some of my favorite ways to cook with it.

Make pickles.

Whenever I find myself with a lot of turmeric, I slice the root thinly, then season the pieces with lemon juice, vinegar, salt, rapeseed oil, and crushed black mustard seeds. The pickles are crunchy and leave a pleasantly numbing sensation on the tongue, and they’re the perfect balance for boldly flavored Indian dishes.

Add it to smoothies and shakes.

I love including freshly grated turmeric in all sorts of blended cold drinks, from milkshakes to green juices. Blitzing it with mango and banana, for example, results in a beautifully yellow, naturally sweet smoothie. I also like to add creamy avocado or cooling yogurt to the mix, which makes the drink ultra luscious and perfectly balances out turmeric’s mildly bitter flavor.

Flavor batters.

Whether you’re making a loaf of bread, a pile of fritters, or a platter of pancakes, don’t hesitate to grab your grater and sprinkle a few teaspoons of fresh turmeric directly into the batter. You’ll end up with a hint of earthiness in every bite, and a lovely golden color in the finished product.

Brew a soothing tea.

Whenever someone in my family is feeling under the weather, I brew a tea with turmeric, black pepper, cinnamon bark, ajwain (carom seeds), and fennel seeds. The mixture soothes the stomach and throat as much as the soul, especially during cold winter months.

Add to stews and curries.

Turmeric is essential in the stews, curries, and soups I make at home, from dal to sabzi. It infuses the rich, creamy dishes with a mild peppery zing that lends complexity and warmth. Next time you’re making a pot of beans or a meaty braise, add a touch of fresh turmeric to make the dish sing.

Use the juice as a natural dye.

You don’t have to mess around with food coloring if you’ve got turmeric on hand. After peeling and chopping the root, blitz it with a splash of water in a blender to make a runny paste. Pass the mixture through a sieve, then set it aside at room temperature for a few hours so the color can intensify. Add a couple teaspoons of this liquid to, say, dough or batter, and the results will be stunningly sunny.

Recipes

Besan Cheela (Chickpea Pancakes)

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Turmeric-Ginger Fish Bake

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Banana-Mango Smoothie with Fresh Turmeric

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Kadha

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The post We Should All Be Cooking with Fresh Turmeric appeared first on Saveur.

Tteok, or rice cakes, manifest in seemingly countless shapes, textures, colors, and flavors across the Korean peninsula. Both an ingredient and a dish, tteok can be turned into a full meal like tteokbokki (stir-fried rice cakes) or tteokguk (rice cake soup), or eaten on its own as a snack or dessert. The cakes are ubiquitous in every facet of Korean life, enjoyed as casual street food and at occasions like Seollal (Lunar New Year), Chuseok (a mid-autumn harvest festival), dols (first birthday celebrations), and funerals.

All tteok start with rice—either maebssal (short-grain rice) or chapssal (sticky rice, also known as glutinous or sweet rice). Maebssal produces a drier, more porous texture, while chapssal yields moister, more elastic tteok. The time-consuming process of transforming these grains into rice cakes generally falls into one of five broad categories: pounding, steaming, shaping, boiling, and frying. Depending on the technique, the texture can range widely from soft and powdery, to thick and chewy, to light and crispy. 

Though industrial machines assist much of tteok production today, many people still make it by hand. Either way, it is a labor of love. Second-generation tteok maker Eunice Park, owner of the Korean bakery Lucky Rice Cake in Southern California, grew up lifting 50-pound bags of rice and hunching over steaming trays in her late father’s shop. Now, she carries on his legacy by not only offering traditional tteok but also taking family recipes in a new direction, with modern touches like delicately hand-piped flowers made of sweet bean paste.

“The rice cake isn’t just a product for me. It’s very symbolic,” says Park. After all, Koreans have been making and sharing tteok to express reverence, artistry, and jeong (a feeling of intense goodwill and deep loyalty) for centuries. The long-standing tradition of gifting tteok “has its roots in times when rice was scarce, meaning that a dense cake made of rice signified luxury, and thus celebrated a special moment or expressed gratitude,” write chefs Junghyun Park and Jungyoon Choi in The Korean Cookbook, their recently released tome on hansik (Korean food culture). 

Today, growing global interest in Korean food—driven by forces like K-Pop, Korean dramas, and social media—has been raising the profile of this naturally gluten-free and often vegan food. “This isn’t just rice cakes anymore. It’s a whole culture,” declares Young S. Choi, the tteok maker behind Kung Sil Rice Bakery in Santa Clara, California, which supplies grocery stores in the San Francisco Bay Area with many of the classic varieties.

Eunice Park hopes that rice cakes can be a vehicle for welcoming more people to share in Korean cultural traditions. More widespread awareness and recognition might start with something as simple as using the Korean word tteok to properly name this class of foods. “When culture changes, the dictionary changes,” points out The New York Times food writer and former SAVEUR contributing editor Eric Kim, who’s also the author of the cookbook Korean American. As Korea’s cultural influence (already enough of a phenomenon to warrant its own name, hallyu) continues to grow, the country’s staple foods, including tteok, are only becoming more widely available. Find tteok in the prepared foods section at a Korean grocer, tteokjips (rice cake specialty shops), or online. Here are some of the most popular varieties of tteok to look for—and what makes each distinctly delicious.

Pounded

Chapssaltteok, or “chaltteok” for short, is the category of tteok made by pounding cooked, cooled glutinous rice. Traditionally, this required a jeolgi—a giant mortar and pestle—but nowadays, machines usually do the heavy lifting. The sticky dough allows for fun variations in shape, texture, and filling.

Jeolpyeon

This sweet treat is a soft rice-dough pouch filled with pat, or sweet red mung bean paste. Sometimes, the dough is pressed with a wood, ceramic, or bangjja (hand-forged bronzeware) stamp for decoration—or dressed up with appliqued pieces of dough, dyed naturally using ingredients like golden hobak (winter squash) pulp, pink songgi (pine-bark pigment), or green ssuk (mugwort leaves).

Injeolmi

A dusting of red mung bean grinds or roasted soybean powder gives these remarkably soft morsels of pounded rice dough a delightfully nutty flavor. In stores, you’ll often find them in airtight cellophane packaging, which preserves their light, airy texture.

Omegi Tteok

On Jeju Island, south of the Korean peninsula, stormy weather and limited land once made rice difficult to procure. Born from scarcity of rice, these craggy desserts feature pounded chajo (foxtail millet) rolled in gomul (crushed red mung beans). Note that omegi tteok hardens quickly and must be enjoyed fresh.

Steamed

As diverse as tteoks in this category may be, all are made possible by the power of steam. Sometimes that means pressing together whole steamed rice grains; other times, it involves steaming a pan of rice flour or rice dough, often along with other ingredients. 

Sirutteok

This subcategory of steamed tteok derives its name from siru, a large traditional earthenware steamer pot. Sirutteok is made by steaming a tray of rice flour and other ingredients, then cutting it into blocks. Red mung beans are a classic add-in, but green peas and baektae garu (ground yellow soybeans) are also popular; on Jeju Island, tteok shops use the rinds of their famous hallabong tangerines. 

Baekseolgi tteok

“White snow cake” tteok graces tables during baek-il, or the celebration of a newborn’s 100th day after birth. Eating baekseolgi tteok for this occasion signifies wishes of purity and health for the little one. Many tteok makers fashion the dough into a round shape to resemble a birthday cake. 

Mujigae tteok

For weddings, a first birthday, or hwangap (a 61st birthday, signifying rebirth after the completion of five 12-year lunar cycles), this square rainbow tteok marks the occasion. The cake’s five layers are traditionally white, pink, yellow, green, and grayish brown, usually derived from natural flavors like gardenia extract, cactus fruit, mugwort powder, and rock ear mushroom. 

Pat sirutteok

Red mung bean sirutteok is a staple at business openings, housewarming parties, and funeral banquets. In Korean folklore, red mung beans are believed to ward off evil spirits, while the red color symbolizes positive yang energy. 

Sultteok

Empty a bottle of unfiltered makgeolli rice wine into a mound of rice flour before steaming the dough mix in a tray, and you get this shiny, spongy tteok with a yeasty tang. This tteok appears most often as a loaf or in a mini-muffin shape, often adorned with black sesame seeds.

Yaksik 

Cooks make this nutritious tteok by mixing steamed sticky rice grains with a binding sweetener and a protein-rich assortment of fruits and nuts (think chestnuts, walnuts, jujubes, and dried cranberries). Cut into bricks, it’s a popular snack to bring on a hike or a day of errands. It’s also a staple during Daeboreum, the first full moon of the new lunar year.

Shaped 

Much like pastas, shaped tteoks are formed into recognizable forms by machine, mold, or hand. Because they keep their shapes well, these tteok are often cooked, so they absorb the flavor of other ingredients. 

Garaetteok

Enjoy this large cylindrical tteok—made with just rice, salt, and water—dipped in some sesame oil or on its own. Eric Kim, whose father prefers garaetteok with honey and soy sauce, likes to roast it like a marshmallow. “It gets toasty-crispy on the outside, but the inside stays very creamy,” he explains.

Tteokbokki tteok

Lovers of tteokbokki, the Korean street food typically bathed in gochujang, will recognize these rice cake batons, which soften as they simmer. While the spicy, saucy iteration of the dish is by far the most popular, you’ll also find these tteok stir-fried with soy sauce (ganjang tteokbokki) and shallow-fried in oil (gireum tteokbokki). According to Ji Hye Kim, a chef focused on bringing old food traditions from the Joseon Dynasty into the modern day, they also make a tasty substitute for pasta, like the cacio e pepe-inspired tteokbokki dish she serves at her Ann Arbor, Michigan restaurant Miss Kim. 

Tteokguk tteok

Thin, elliptical medallions of bias-sliced garaetteok are a main ingredient in tteokguk, an anchovy broth-based soup that ushers in the Lunar New Year. It is “one of the most significant dishes in Korean tradition. On the first day of the new year, tteokguk was eaten as the first meal in tribute to ancestors,” write Junghyun Park and Jungyoon Choi in The Korean Cookbook.

Songpyeon

Glistening dumplings loaded with pat (mashed red mung beans) or ggul kkeh (whole sesame seeds with crystalized honey), songpyeon often have a familiar half-moon shape, appearing in kaleidoscopic arrangements at Chuseok celebrations. Songpyeon translates to “pine tteok,” as the dumplings were traditionally steamed in a basket with pine needles, which prevented the songpyeon from sticking and also imparted a fresh scent. Sometimes, these tteok undergo additional steaming to set their shape. (A smaller, rounder version is called ggul tteok.)

Boiled

Gyeongdan, the only variety of boiled rice cakes, encases a sweet filling of red mung bean paste. After simmering in hot water, the tteok are rolled in crushed black sesame seeds or bean powders.

Fried

It’s hard not to love fried dough. The rice flour in these tteok gives them an irresistibly crisp and chewy texture.

Hotteok

Iron-pressed pancakes stuffed with cinnamon and sugar became popular across the peninsula when Qing Chinese merchants introduced them to Korea in the late 19th century. In the 1950s, Korean War refugees who fled south to Busan created ssiat hotteok, a version filled and covered with seeds and nuts.

Gaesong-juak

These eye-catching miniature donuts, which originated in the Kaesong region in present-day North Korea, are glazed with ssal-jocheong (rice syrup) and bedazzled with ingredients like pumpkin seeds, whipped cream, and candied persimmons. Once reserved for weddings and Chuseok, the donuts are now a treat for any day of the year—and an excuse to be creative.

Hwajeon

Believed to date back to the Koryo Dynasty (918-1392), hwajeon are circlets of fried dough adorned with seasonal flowers like azaleas, rhododendrons, pear blossoms, rose petals, and wild chrysanthemum. They’re a festive symbol of not only Samjinnal, the arrival of spring during the third month of the lunar calendar, but also Buddha’s birthday soon thereafter.

Recipes

Rosé Tteokbokki with Crab

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Tteokguk (Rice Cake Soup)

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Hotteok (Cinnamon Sugar-Stuffed Pancakes)

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The post A Brief Guide to the Wide, Wonderful World of Korean Rice Cakes appeared first on Saveur.

If you hope to live a long life, chances are you’ve researched, or at least speculated, what makes Japan’s average life expectancy the highest in the world. Many research findings have connected Japanese longevity to certain food and drink staples, from fish to green tea. Among the hailed ingredients is a slippery, slimy one that’s beloved in Japanese culture but has yet to make its way into the hearts and minds of the global masses: natto, an all-around miraculous food.

Natto is made by steaming soybeans, then inoculating them with a microorganism known as Bacillus subtilis, explains Ann Yonetani, a microbiologist and founder of the natto company NYrture. As a result of fermentation, the soybeans develop a sticky, stringy texture and a nutty, pungent flavor, somewhat reminiscent of aged cheese.

My dad, who spent time working in Japan and speaks the language, instilled in me an early appreciation for natto. At breakfast, he’d scoop a little into my bowl of porridge, or slide a jar toward me encouragingly as I ate my scrambled eggs—often while remarking, “it’s really good for you”—before gobbling up a helping of his own. At first I merely tolerated natto’s presence in my bowl, but eventually, I missed its funky aroma whenever it wasn’t on the table.

If no one ever coaxed you to acquire a taste for natto when you were a kid, it’s not too late to acquire it now—and it turns out there are lots of good reasons to do so. It’s no secret that fermented foods are advantageous for gut health, but one way Bacillus subtilis differs from the bacteria in many other fermented items is that it has the ability to form spores. “The spores are able to survive the extremely acidic conditions of the stomach and make it through your digestive system,” explains Yonetani. These beneficial microbes can then join the community of bacteria that populate the intestines, where they contribute to a more diverse gut microbiome, which in turn supports healthier immune and digestive function.

Natto also contains more Vitamin K2 than any other known food source, notes Yonetani, explaining that the micronutrient is critical for calcium metabolism. Studies published in The Journal of Nutrition associate natto consumption with lower risk of osteoporotic fracture and bone density loss. It could support heart health, too, as eating fermented soy products like natto and miso is also linked to lower risk of death by cardiovascular disease, according to a study in The BMJ (British Medical Journal). “Really good for you” indeed.

In Japan, many people wake up to fermented soybeans. “It’s really very popular as a breakfast dish,” says Jane Matsumoto, director of culinary arts at the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center (JACCC). Perhaps that’s because natto is exceptionally filling, with more than 30 grams of protein in a single cup—something Yonetani says she especially appreciated after transitioning to a vegan lifestyle. Plus, natto is easy to prepare: simply scoop the savory ingredient right out of the jar and dollop it over rice, or stir some into a bowl of miso soup, and breakfast is served.

Those curious about natto’s health-boosting benefits can now find it in a variety of forms—from natto powder to capsules of isolated nattokinase (an enzyme found in natto that’s especially linked to cardiovascular benefits)—but there’s nothing like enjoying Japan’s gift to nutrition in all its funky, slippery glory.“Natto is an amazingly simple, two-ingredient food that produces something so unique, with marvelous flavor and texture,” says Yonetani.

In the U.S., look for natto in Japanese markets and Asian grocers, and on e-commerce retailers like Umamicart. The ingredient typically comes with little packets of karashi (Japanese mustard) and a soy sauce-based seasoning for stirring into the beans before eating, but there are myriad ways to enjoy the ingredient. “I think natto is a lot more versatile than the traditional Japanese applications,” Matsumoto notes.

Here are some different techniques for integrating natto into your next meal:

Enjoy natto with rice.

An easy, popular preparation I often whip up quickly for breakfast is natto gohan, which calls for dolloping the fermented beans over steamed rice, then garnishing with toppings like scallion and tsukemono (a variety of Japanese pickles). But don’t stop there. Chris Ono, the chef behind the JACCC’s restaurant concept Hansei, likes eating natto with yaki onigiri, or grilled rice balls, which have a crispy texture that contrasts delightfully with the gooey natto. “I break the onigiri open and put the natto in the middle,” he says. Ono also rolls the soybeans into maki with scallion and takuan, or pickled daikon—a sweet, crunchy addition that helps “cut the intensity” of the natto, he adds.

Pair natto with similarly viscous ingredients.

In Japanese cuisine, natto often shows up alongside other viscous foods (Japanese language describes that sticky texture as neba neba). “I call it slime on slime,” says Matsumoto, who loves pairing natto with okra. Grated yamaimo, or mountain yam, is another terrific partner for the ingredient—the sticky combination makes a tasty topping for any rib-sticking bowl of carbs, be it noodles, rice, or porridge. Raw egg, a typical garnish for natto gohan, also makes for a satisfyingly slurpable concoction.

Toss natto into a stir-fry.

The next time you whip up a stir-fry, try tossing in some fermented soybeans. “Think of natto as a main protein,” suggests Ono, pointing out the ingredient’s savory flavor and meaty chew. Earthy ingredients like mushrooms marry nicely with the nutty quality of natto, he says, while alliums like garlic and onion enhance its umaminess. Just be sure to add the natto at the very end of the cooking process, Yonetani advises, so you don’t apply too much heat, which could kill those friendly bacteria.

Complement natto with your favorite cheese.

Anything you might top with cheese, you can probably consider adding some natto to it, says Yonetani, pointing out that the two are similarly pungent. She regularly mixes them in dishes like grilled-cheese sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and pasta—and swears that Parmesan cheese is an especially exquisite complement for natto (Japanese and Italian seasonings are known to be harmonious, after all). If it’s hard for you to get past the beans’ stringy quality, consider folding some into a cheesy, velvety dip. The soybeans add crunch, while their slippery texture incorporates subtly into the creaminess of the dip.

Add sweetness and spice.

Seasonings for natto aren’t limited to karashi and soy sauce. Got some sriracha, Tabasco, salsa macha, or chile crisp on hand? I love drizzling any of these fiery condiments over top to heat things up. Ono recommends sprinkling in shichimi togarashi (a seven-spice mix that includes red chiles, sansho pepper, dried orange peel, and sesame seeds) or stirring in yuzu kosho (a fermented condiment made with chiles and yuzu) to jazz up your natto with a citrusy, spicy boost. Or, follow Yonetani’s suggestion and experiment with stirring in different salad dressings. From sweet honey mustard to tart balsamic vinaigrette, the flavor profiles you can create are endless.

Recipe

Natto Gohan

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The post There’s a Lot to Love About Natto appeared first on Saveur.

This feature was originally published in our May/June 1998 issue.

Miso, that elemental paste of fermented soybeans, was once made in most Japanese homes, both in the cities and in the countryside. Recipes and procedures were well-guarded family secrets, the process took months, and no two batches of miso would ever taste the same—due to varying proportions of salt to soybeans, the common (but not essential) addition of rice or barley, and the length of fermentation. Even the soil in which the soybeans were grown could make a difference. Miso, as a result, became a source of great family pride. “Temae miso desuga,” one would say—meaning “I don’t want to boast about my miso, but…”

Though my own family did not make miso at home, it was indispensable to us nonetheless, as it was (and still is) in all Japanese kitchens. Misoshiru, or miso soup, is served almost every day—either with rice and pickled vegetables as a complete (if frugal) meal, or on its own as the standard breakfast. I use miso as a base for all kinds of sauces and dressings, and like many people, I believe it to be essential when braising or grilling fish, especially strong-flavored mackerel. And I wouldn’t cook beef without it.

Like tofu (soybean curd), miso is high in protein. Unlike tofu, whose greatest selling point is its ability to soak up the flavor of whatever else it is cooked with, each kind of miso has its own rich, complex flavor and its own purpose—whether it be to enrich a broth or stock, to season a sauce or marinade, to work as a pickling agent or preservative, or to stand on its own, spread on vegetables or layered into casseroles. Miso is healthy and versatile and simple in composition, but its real magic comes from the fact that it has the ability to transform—even to elevate—other ingredients onto a different level altogether. That’s what puts miso at the heart of Japanese cuisine.

Unfortunately, miso can be confusing for anyone who hasn’t grown up with it. The problem is twofold: First of all, it has no Western counterpart, either in composition or versatility, so the average non-Japanese cook has no frame of reference for it. The second problem is that there are several types of miso—the three basic categories being komemiso, mugimiso, and mamemiso (rice, barley, and straight soybean miso, respectively), and each encompasses several different varieties.

Japan’s miso tradition began around the seventh century a.d. Miso seems to have evolved from both chiang, a soybean paste that Buddhist monks brought from China, and jang, a similar soybean product that Korean farmers introduced into Japan’s countryside. With the exception of a rustic farmhouse version, miso was made just for the nobility (and solely by monks) until the tenth century. Gradually, soybeans became more widely available, and the making of miso slowly spread to all levels of society. Though it had reached staple status throughout Japan by the 1300s, miso continued to be produced at home until the 18th century, when samurai families, once employed by now-disenfranchised feudal lords, founded the miso-making industry.

Today, much of the miso made in Japan comes from giant factories. According to Eddie Fujima, a consultant for Marubeni America Corporation in New York City—which exports American soybeans to Japan—some 50 of Japan’s 1,355 miso makers control 90 percent of the market. Most of these use soybeans imported either from the United States or from China. Miso connoisseurs, who are adept at detecting an inferior product, seek out small miso breweries—the kind that are painstakingly preserving old-fashioned techniques and regional miso styles.

Late last year, I took the train from Tokyo to Honjō, about 75 mils northwest of the city. From there, I caught a bus to the tiny village of Kamiizumi-mura, and specifically to Yamaki Jōzō—a miso factory that functions, at least in part, i the traditionally manner. (Yama means “mountain,” as in a mountain of soybeans or miso; ki stands for Kitani, the name of the family that owns the company; and jōzō means “brewery.”) Kazuhiko Morita, the brewery’s director, neatly attired in a starched white work jacket and white hat, greeted me with a deep bow and a smile at the brewery door. Immediately, he launched into a passionate explanation of the company’s history, informing me that it had been making miso (the three basic types as well as a few specialty styles), soy sauce, and tofu since 1902. In the 1960s, the organization had switched to using raw materials most of them grown domestically. And though the company’s philosophy had remained traditional, he added, production had become partially automated in the mid-1980s. When he stopped to take a breath, I interrupted and asked to se how miso is made. “Okay!” he agreed, and we were off.

Yamaki is a small brewery—its annual output is about 400 tons—and only one type of miso is made at a time. I turned up on the third day of akamiso (red miso, which in this case refers to a type of rice miso) production. On the first day, rice had been soaked, steamed, and then inoculated with kōjikin, a spore of mold (Aspergillus oryzae) that triggers fermentation. It had been fermenting for about 48 hours since then, producing enzymes that would later help break down the soybeans.

The first room we visited was devoted to the soybeans. We stood on a high platform along one of two gigantic steel pressure cookers. When we opened the lid, a vigorous swirl of steam filled the entire room. Once the steam, had evaporated, my guide scooped up a lovely. yellow mound of soft soybeans. “cooked beans should be cooled quickly,” he explained, as he pushed a few burtons commanding the cooker to turn and empty all 5,300 pounds of its contents onto a conveyor belt. Next, we peeked into the hot, humid rice room, where eight inches of fuzzy kōji, or inoculated rice, covered the floor. Two conveyor belts, one carrying the cooled steamed soybeans, the other transporting the kōji, come together in a third room. There, the grain and beans are mixed with sea salt and spring water, then pressed through a big machine resembling a meat mincer. Next the mixture is packed into huge cedar barrels. A plastic sheet is stretched over the top and weighted with stones to force excess liquid to the top and help create a safe, airtight environment. Then the miso is left to ferment until the summer.

In June or July, Morita-san told me, the miso is moved to another set of barrels—exposure to oxygen enhances fermentation—and allowed to develop for a few more months. In November, the miso is stirred and transferred yet again so that the light brown color will be evenly distributed. Shortly after that, Morita-san tastes the miso to determine how much longer it should be left to mature. He looks for a dark brown color and a mild flavor; if it’s too salty at this point, eh said, it is not ready. Morita-san claims to have ruined a batch of miso only three times in 20 years, but he also told me that his loyal (and picky) customers have no qualms about pointing out even the slightest changes. Yamaki’s miso is neither dosed with alcohol to stop the fermentation process nor passteurized (as many misos are). Instead, when Morita-san believes his miso to be ready, he packs it into refrigerated steel vats. This way, all its natural yeasts and lactic acids (which are believed to aid in digestion) remain active, resulting not only in a more nutritious miso, but in one more complex in flavor.

At the end of my tour, Morita-san packed me a container of one of the brewery’s specialty misos—genmai-namamiso, which is made with brown rice instead of the usual white.

A week later, after I’d written him a letter thanking him for his hospitality, he offered me an even better gift: “Would you like to make your own miso at home?” he inquired by fax. Upon receiving my enthusiastic reply, he sent me two pounds of kōji and detailed instructions. I bought the finest soybeans I could find, a five-quart enamel container with a fitted lid, and four pounds of stone weights. I soaked and cooked my soybeans, mixed them with Morita-san’s kōji, then mashed them with sea salt and water. I packed it all into the pot, set it in my basement, and prayed for the growth of “good” miso bacteria. Four months later, I cautiously opened the lid. At once, I recognized the sweet rice fragrance that had permeated the brewery. The miso’s surface had acquired a lush dark brown hue, and to my relief, there were no “bad” bacteria. I stirred up my miso, then set it aside again. In November, Morita-san called, asked me how my miso was behaving, and suggested that it was probably ready. With that, I gathered some small containers, made a mental list of the lucky few I would share my miso with, and returned to the basement. I gave my miso several big stirs to even out the color, then I had a taste. “Temae miso desuga…”

The post Magical Miso appeared first on Saveur.

Right now I’m relishing all the signs of spring that I can eat. Asparagus and ramps are finally at the local farmers markets, rhubarb is on the way, and I just stumbled upon green almonds yesterday, a sight that perked me up more than any amount of caffeine possibly could.

If you’ve never had them, green almonds are fuzzy green orbs filled with soft jelly-like skinless almonds—soft and delicately nutty with a wholly different texture than fully mature almonds. When fresh, they can be eaten whole. They’re crunchy, tart, and reminiscent of unripe peaches (in a good way!). When the outer layer is removed, the young almonds are delicate, milky, and subtly floral and grassy.

Leave a green almond on the tree and it loses its fuzz, hardens, and turns brown. Crack the hard outer shell and you’ll find a conventional, crunchy almond you’re likely very familiar with. (Fun fact: Botanically speaking, almonds aren’t nuts. They’re actually stone fruits, and the almonds we all snack on are the seeds within the stones of the fuzzy green fruit.)

Where to Buy Green Almonds

Green almonds typically pop up at farmers markets and specialty stores in early spring, and only stick around for a few weeks, so they’re an extra special treat if you can find them. (Here in New York, they’re available at Eataly, Kalustyan’s, and Sahadi’s.) They can be stored in the fridge for up to three weeks, but you’ll want to be sure to taste them as time passes—the longer they sit, the more likely it is their outer husks will harden and turn bitter, in which case you’ll need to discard them and only eat the tender stones inside.

How to Eat Green Almonds

Green almonds are super versatile. I love eating them whole, pressed into flaky sea salt. I also love them with cheese and cured meats. You can chop them up and toss them into salads, or make a chunky, pesto-y sauce by mixing them with herbs, garlic chives or green garlic, and olive oil (spoon this over asparagus, eggs, or fish). Pickle them, even!

They’re good on sweet things, too. A simple dessert could be some dates, green almonds, and flaky sea salt. Tarts and ice cream can benefit from some chopped green almonds sprinkled on top.

I’m also obsessed with pairing green almonds with ricotta and honeycomb, a tip I picked up from the Ducksoup cookbook (another recent obsession). And one of my all-time favorite ways to eat them is poached in olive oil and showered in fresh dill. I first tried them this way at a restaurant in Istanbul and immediately asked for the recipe, which I’ve been using ever since.

The post Green Almonds Are the Super-Seasonal Taste of Spring to Eat Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Before I moved to Spain, the pimentón in my cupboard often wound up collecting dust. Sure, I loved the smoky undertow it brought to the odd Spanish cooking project, but getting through a whole tin before it expired? Imposible.

But if eight years’ eating my way across the Iberian Peninsula have taught me anything, it’s that pimentón is a miracle spice, its barbecue-pit smokiness enhancing everything from seafood to stews to fruit salads. These days, I keep three types in my pantry—and they never last longer than their expiration date. 

All that is to say, I have a hunch you’re not using pimentón wrong—you’re just not using it enough. So, don’t let any of that twee little tin go to waste, and up your pimentón cooking game with these essential tips.

1. Play around with different Spanish paprika varieties.

As food historian Almudena Villegas told me, “One cannot conceive of Spanish cuisine without pimentón.” There are three main categories to know: dulce (sweet), agridulce (medium), and picante (hot). The first is made from Jaranda and Bola peppers; the second from Jaranda and Jariza; and the third from Jeromín, Jariza, and Jaranda. The different pepper types and heat levels make each pimentón variant distinctive, so buy a tin of each and experiment freely. Harder to find is the less-famous paprika of Murcia, an unsmoked variety made from sweet, bulbous ñoras.

2. Buy pimentón in small quantities.

Past-its-prime paprika won’t kill you, but it lacks the complexity and fruitiness of the just-packaged stuff. Ensure your paprika stash is always fresh by buying in small quantities from a trusted purveyor like Despaña or La Tienda, then use it within a year (ideally within six months). If the expiration date has passed, chuck it and restock your supply.

3. Store it as you would good olive oil or wine.

Unlike most spices in your cupboard, pimentón still comes in old-timey metal tins. That’s not just good marketing—the opaque container shields the paprika from light, which degrades it. So do heat and humidity. Store pimentón in a cool, dark, dry place (i.e., not next to the stove or on a shelf that gets sunlight).

4. Turn to Spanish paprika for color, not just flavor.

Pimentón makes a striking garnish—even when you don’t want smoke to be the dominant flavor. I like dusting it onto pale-colored dishes for a vivid pop of red: buttered baked potatoes, hummus, cream of cauliflower soup, egg salad, risotto, garlic bread, braised cabbage, poached fish … The applications are endless.

5. Use it liberally when grilling isn’t in the cards.

The downside to living in a postage-stamp apartment in Madrid is that I can’t grill. Enter pimentón, which comes to my rescue when I’m craving ribs or kebabs or baba ghannouj. I add it to spice rubs before broiling or grill-panning my protein or veg of choice, or I drizzle the finished dish with paprika oil (more on that below).

6. Bloom your pimentón for extra depth of flavor.

I’ll never forget watching Pablo Barrera make patatas revolconas (pimentón-laced mashed potatoes with crispy bacon) in the mountains north of Madrid. The way he dropped heaped spoonfuls of paprika straight into sizzling-hot pork fat before stirring the bright-orange liquid into the mash. “Blooming” the pimentón this way coaxes even more complexity from the spice—but be careful it doesn’t burn, lest the spice turn bitter. Twenty seconds is about right. Pour this Spanish-inflected tarka of sorts over soups, stewed legumes, boiled meats, mashed root vegetables—you name it.

7. Learn to recognize this symbol—it’s a guarantee of quality.

The most sought-after pimentón comes from the sun-soaked region of La Vera, in landlocked Extremadura, southwest of Madrid. Every tin of real-deal pimentón de la Vera bears the symbol of the D.O.P. (Denominación de Origen Protegida), the government body that oversees and regulates pimentón production. Keep your eye out for an abstract rectangular emblem with a spiral sun and long red chile.

8. Understand the difference between Spanish and Hungarian paprikas—and when it’s ok to substitute.

Hungarian (and Hungarian-style California) paprika can be mild, medium, or sharp (hot), but it’s seldom smoked like pimentón. Recipes that call for Spanish paprika, like escabeche or baked rice, are after that campfire flavor, which Hungarian simply can’t provide. Likewise, substituting pimentón for Hungarian paprika in paprikash or goulash would make for an overly smoky result. Use the type of paprika the recipe specifies—unless it calls for only a dusting, in which case you’re safe to use whatever paprika tickles your fancy.

9. Add it to your vegetarian (and vegan) cooking arsenal.

Let pimentón be your secret weapon next time you want to channel the savory smokiness of bacon, chorizo, and other cured meats without resorting to animal proteins. Stirred into stews and sauces or sprinkled on salads, Spanish paprika hits those high notes of meaty umami that everybody craves. “It’s like a drop of liquid smoke,” according to Anya von Bremzen, author of The New Spanish Table. “I like to put in borscht, because some recipes call for Ukrainian smoked prunes, which are hard to find.”

10. Think of pimentón as a charcuterie board pinch hitter.

Some of the best Spanish cheeses and cured meats are flavored with pimentón, from Canarian almogrote and Majorero cheese to Extremaduran chorizo and Majorcan sobrassada. But even if you don’t have access to great Spanish charcuterie, you can add smokiness to appetizer spreads by tossing olives with olive oil, minced garlic, and pimentón. Or pan-fry whatever nuts you have on hand with a bit of oil, pimentón, and a spoonful of whatever spice blend you fancy.

11. Don’t stop at savory.

Pimentón’s presence in Catalan dishes like spinach with raisins and pine nuts got me thinking about the spice’s compatibility with fruit. I’m pleased to report that pimentón pairs marvelously with ripe mango, especially as a salsa for grilled fish or chicken, as well as melon or orange salads, and grilled stone fruit dolloped with melty cheese.

Smoky Spanish Pork Rib Stew with Potatoes and Pimentón

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The Pimentón in Your Cupboard Comes From My Quiet Corner of Spain

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The post Your Ultimate Pimentón Primer appeared first on Saveur.

Until I started spending time in Georgia, walnuts were an afterthought in my kitchen. Occasionally I’d toss them into brownie batter and sprinkle them over salads, but truth be told, they usually wound up in the trash, rancid and mealy from months of neglect. What a waste: As I’d learn in the Caucasus, walnuts are far more than a snack or a garnish. They can be the backbone of a dish, blitzed with vegetables into savory spreads, pounded with garlic into heady sauces for meat, or whisked into stews for richness and heft. In other words, your favorite new magic-bullet ingredient might already be in your cupboard.  

Many cultures cook with walnuts—see walnut-thickened fesenjan from Iran, or pickled walnuts from Britain—but in Georgia the ingredient is elemental. From the Azerbaijan border in the east to the Black Sea in the west, walnuts are in everything from soup to—well, you get it, imbuing stews, salads, sauces, and desserts with a woodsy richness that’s a hallmark of Georgian cooking. The more walnutty foods I tried in the region, the more I wondered what these walnut whisperers knew that the rest of us didn’t, and how Georgia became such a walnut-loving nation in the first place.

My fieldwork began in the one-church village of Akura at the foot of the Caucasus Mountains. I was at a backyard feast at the home of Tekuna Gachechiladze, whose Tbilisi restaurant Café Littera breezes through 15 pounds of walnuts in a slow week. “So, you want to know about walnuts?” Gachechiladze asked, chuckling. “Go grab a bottle of wine. We’re going to be here for a while.”

Walnuts have been growing alongside humans since neanderthals were our neighbors. Fossil records show that they’ve existed in the Caucasus for millennia, ample time for Georgians to develop their own mythology, traditions, and—of course—foods based on the nut. According to culinary historian Dali Tsatava, walnuts are the oldest-known cultivated food in the Caucasus region. “Walnut trees were always sacred, considered a symbol of abundance,” she explained. “The nuts were offered as a sacrifice at churches, which were often surrounded by walnut trees, and almost every Georgian family had a walnut tree at the gate.” 

The spiritual connection to walnuts has been all but forgotten, but the trees and their bounty remain. Between sips of rkatsiteli, Gachechiladze explained that walnut cookery in Georgia comes down to three components: the walnuts themselves, garlic, and khmeli suneli—a spice blend that usually contains coriander, chile, dried marigold petals, and an extra-floral strain of local fenugreek (Trigonella caerulea)—all forced through a meat grinder or pounded in a mortar to obtain a thick paste. “Dilute this mixture with water, and you have bazhe sauce. Stir it into meat stew, and you’ve got kharcho. Work it into cooked vegetables or greens, and you have pkhali. And on and on,” she said. 

Gachechiladze is persnickety about her pkhali, which at Littera comes in four colorful varieties: beet, eggplant, spinach, and—my favorite—leek. “You should add enough spices and garlic to flavor the dish, but not so much that they overpower the delicate vegetables and walnuts,” she said. Acid is also crucial as it balances the walnuts’ oily richness—not only in pkhali but in all of Georgia’s savory walnut dishes. Lemon juice, vinegar, and fresh pomegranate juice are all fair game. 

But the question remained: What was with the outsize presence of walnuts in Georgian food? Gachechiladze posits that the calorie-rich nuts, high in protein and fat, were historically the most nutritious stand-in for meat, which the peasantry could seldom afford. Further, the whole nation, rich and poor, avoided meat during Lent, which gave rise to an entire canon of vegetarian “fasting” dishes including pkhali and lobio (stewed kidney beans with walnuts and fresh herbs). “I only remember my mother making pkhali when we were fasting,” said Gachechiladze.          

Like Gachechiladze, chef Meriko Gubeladze of Tbilisi’s Shavi Lomi and Ninia’s Garden grew up in a walnut-loving family. “As children, we’d pick them when they were still green and rub their white flesh on our lips. It looked like we were wearing lipstick!” she told me over the phone. Walnuts contain a chemical called juglone that, when exposed to air, becomes a brownish black pigment. 

While the kids dabbled in makeup routines, the grown-ups would be in the kitchen turning the season’s first walnuts into a chthonic spoon-sweet called muraba. This jet-black conserve is so tedious to make that you’re likely to—as the Georgian saying goes—“break a walnut shell between your butt cheeks”: First you have to remove the nuts’ ornery skin (turning your fingers brown in the process), then soak the peeled nuts in multiple changes of water mixed with alum (for color) and lime (for crispness), and finally candy them in sugar syrup and can them for long-term preservation. Georgians serve the resulting orbs with breakfast and tea; me, I like them paired with stinky cheeses and spooned over chocolate ice cream.    

In autumn, when walnuts’ tender green skins ossify into brown, brainy exoskeletons, they’re harvested and sent to market. Even at corner groceries, Georgians have the luxury of choosing from several bins of walnuts segregated by size and color. Broken brownish nubs, the most affordable option, are snapped up for soups and pkhali for which color is unimportant, while the prized whiter intact walnut halves lend gozinaki (walnut brittle) its attractive cragginess and sauces like bazhe their requisite ivory hue. 

“Anyone can whip up bazhe in five minutes,” said Gubeladze, and she’s right, provided you have walnuts and a few key spices (coriander, fenugreek, and marigold) on hand. Roast chicken with tomato-cucumber salad and a passed bowl of bazhe is Georgian weeknight fare at its finest: gutsy, simple, fresh. Gubeladze’s recipe, my go-to, is lighter and tangier than most, thanks to the double whammy of acid in the form of white wine vinegar and pomegranate juice. It plays as well with sheet-pan veggies as it does with grilled meats and even fish. 

But for newcomers to Georgian cuisine, the biggest revelation may be what walnuts do for stews. Georgians employ garlicky walnut paste like the French use cream, adding it in the final minutes of cooking for richness, texture, and depth. Walnut-thickened stews are so prized by Georgians that the country rings in each New Year with satsivi, a slow-simmered cauldron of turkey braised with garlic, cinnamon, and allspice and anointed with drops of orange-hued walnut oil. (Food scholar Darra Goldstein, author of The Georgian Feast, makes the case that satsivi descends from north Indian curries, but that’s a tale for another time.)  

Bolder and spicier than satsivi is kharcho, a west Georgian meat stew brimming with ajika and walnuts. It’s such a crowd-pleaser that it was adopted by cooks across the former Soviet Union, where it remains a staple from St. Petersburg to Samarkand. Indeed, one of my favorite bites on earth is the beef kharcho at Tbilisi restaurant Salobie Bia, where chef Giorgi Iosava ladles it over creamed foxtail millet akin to polenta. The spoon-tender brisket and silky porridge are so delightfully soft that the combo ought to be prescribed after wisdom teeth surgery.

Back in Akura, Gachechiladze was using kharcho as a verb—“If you haven’t kharcho’ed shrimp, you haven’t lived!” My stomach audibly groaned as we stood and walked over to the overflowing supra table. There, beneath the boughs of a gnarled, old tree, we toasted to friends, to ancestors, and—naturally—to Georgia. When I looked over at Gachechiladze, she was pointing up at the foliage with one hand and down at the table with the other, her eyes glinting: “Any guesses?” she said.

Recipes

Georgian Roast Chicken With Bazhe Sauce

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Georgian Beef Kharcho

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Leek Pkhali (Georgian Vegetable Paté)

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The post The World’s Walnut Whisperers appeared first on Saveur.

We love summer squash, but by the middle of the season, it piles up on us. After grilling it one night and stewing it the next, we often run out of ideas. That’s a shame, since the sweet, mild vegetable is delectable on flatbreads and pizzas, in salads and pastas, and roasted with garlic and herbs. 

Summer squashes come in a spectrum of greens and yellows. Unlike hardier winter varieties, they’re distinguished by a thin, edible skin that requires no peeling. These are the zucchini, globe squashes, pattipans, and crooknecks of the Cucurbita world. Harvested young, summer squash can be as small as your thumb; left to their own devices, they can grow to over eight feet. We reach for zucchini measuring five to seven inches—sturdy enough to stew yet soft enough for easy eating.

Any variety of summer squash will work marvelously in the following recipes. Translation? There’s simply no excuse to let that bumper crop of zucchini go to waste.

Farinata with Summer Squash, Goat Cheese, and Preserved Lemon

The oft-unadorned chickpea pancake of Italy and southern France makes a satisfying base for a roasted summer vegetable tart here. Tangy preserved lemon and fresh chèvre are a nod to the dish’s Mediterranean roots. Get the recipe >

Grilled Summer Squash Salad

“If you toss hot vegetables with a cold vinaigrette right after grilling, it will absorb more flavor,” says the New Orleans chef who created this terrific make-ahead dish. The longer the vegetables sit in the marinade, the more flavorful they become. Get the recipe >

Fried Anchovy-Stuffed Zucchini Blossoms

Light and airy with a subtle squash flavor, zucchini blossoms are a rare and delicate summer treat. In this appetizer, the flowers are stuffed with anchovies, beer-battered, and fried until crisp. Get the recipe > 

Frida Kahlo’s Zucchini Salad (Ensalada de Calabacín)

Frida Kahlo was known to host festive meals at her Mexico City home that she lovingly called “long tablecloth days.” At one such event, she served this salad of grilled zucchini, avocado, and crumbled añejo cheese. Get the recipe >

Provençal Vegetable Tian

In this classic Provençal dish, rows of sliced zucchini, eggplant, and tomato alternate and melt together to make a mesmerizing fan effect. Get the recipe >

Green Minestrone with Kohlrabi, Olives, and Spinach Pesto

At Berlin’s vegan restaurant Lucky Leek, this green minestrone brims with kohlrabi, fennel, and briny green olives. Freshly made pesto is stirred in just before serving. Get the recipe >

Spaghetti Primavera

The old-school classic never disappoints, especially when it’s enriched with handfuls of Parmigiano-Reggiano and plenty of heavy cream. Get the recipe >

Ratatouille

Sautéing dried herbes de Provence in extra-virgin olive oil brings out their fragrance in this vegetable medley that’s a mainstay of Provençal cuisine. When in season, juicy fresh tomatoes bring ratatouille to the next level. Get the recipe >

The post 8 Amazing Ways to Use Up Zucchini and Summer Squash appeared first on Saveur.

At this very moment in Spain, with gazpacho season behind us and the days getting shorter, someone is pricking chorizo for Asturian fabada (slow-cooked pork and beans), simmering fish fumet for Basque marmitako (tuna stew), and sautéing sofrito for Manchegan caldereta (wine-braised lamb). Me? I’m in my slippers boiling pig blood and chopping chocolate for one of Iberia’s most peculiar—and tastiest—stews: Catalan civet. 

Civet (pronounced see-VET) is an ancient dish hailing from the Pyrenees Mountains on the French-Catalan border. To make it, cooks soak meat and vegetables in wine, often for days, and then stew them in their own marinade until spoon-tender and intoxicatingly fragrant. If you’ve tasted coq au vin or boeuf bourguignon, you’re familiar with the genre, but there are some key differences between civet and your standard winey braise.

That’s what I learned a couple of months ago at Era Coquèla in Vielha, Catalonia, the kind of come-one-come-all mountain tavern where off-duty forest rangers rub elbows with bejeweled señoras. My partner Marcos and I had spent the day slogging up boulder-strewn trails in Aigüestortes National Park, so when we sat down for dinner, something stodgy and nourishing was in order. “Have you ever tried civet?” our waiter asked, pegging us as out-of-towners from the jump. With his two-word translation, “venison stew,” we were sold. 

When our plates plonked down, we exchanged uneasy glances: Before us lay brown, gloppy mounds with nary a fleck of parsley in sight. This was mountain food, I thought, uncensored. Then I inhaled. The smell of wine, rosemary, and some mysterious earthy spice tickled my nostrils, sending my salivary glands into overdrive. With the faintest nudge of a fork, the meat disintegrated into the thick, mahogany sauce which cloaked every savory bite. Yet as I squeegeed the plate clean with bread, I still couldn’t shake the question: What was that spice? Almost on cue, the waiter sauntered over, grinning. “The secret ingredient is chocolate,” he said. 

Chocolate? in a traditional stew? deep in the remote Pyrenees? His answer sent me down a civet rabbit hole of recipes and lore from which I have yet to emerge. See: slippers; pig blood.
To get the skinny on civets, I first dialed up Jaume Fàbrega, Catalan food scholar and author of 50-some culinary history books including La cuina del Pirineu català, about Pyrenean-Catalan cuisine. The term civet, he explained, is likely a few centuries old, but people have been making wine-based stews in Spain since at least ancient Roman times. “Marinating meat in wine makes it softer and more flavorful and extends its shelf life,” he said, adding that nearly every Mediterranean culture has its own wine-based stew.

In the Catalan Pyrenees, where wild game meats like roe deer and boar are a dietary mainstay, the technique was particularly handy: An overnight bath in wine helped mitigate tough textures and sharp odors. Fàbrega reminded me that, “until the 1950s, we’re talking bear and badger and whatever else was scurrying around, in addition to the usual venison, wild boar, and hare still cooked in civets today.” 

Era Coquèla’s chef, Marc Nus, makes venison civet the old-school way, but he likes to invert the standard stewing order of operations for less feral, more delicate meats. To make quail civet, for instance, he simmers (unmarinated) fowl with wine and aromatics. When they’re fall-off-the-bone tender, he refrigerates the birds overnight in the sauce to let the flavors fully penetrate the meat, almost like an escabeche. “It’s one of our most popular dishes,” he said. 

Though civet is synonymous with game, there are no hard-and-fast rules when it comes to its ingredients, except, perhaps, that some type of allium must be involved; “civet” is believed to come from an Occitan word for onion. In fact, a Google search turns up hundreds of recipes for civets made from beef, chicken, pork—you name it, someone’s probably civet-ed it. Across the French border in Languedoc, they even make civet with lobster, its sauce enriched with syrupy Banyuls wine and the crustacean’s coral and blood. 

Blood is probably what gave lobster civet its name. Historical recipes for civet almost always call for animal blood (pigs’ blood was most common), which was added at the end of cooking for its deep brown color and saline richness—and, importantly, for texture. The albumen in blood is a natural thickening agent and lends a luxurious glossiness to hot soups, as anyone who’s tried Korean seonji-guk, Portuguese papas de sarrabulho, or Polich czernina can attest. 

Fàbrega notes that blood would have been absent from civet’s medieval precursors due to religious taboos, and that it was likely added to the dish in the 15th and 16th centuries. The reason is rather shocking. After the so-called Christian Reconquest, when the Catholic Monarchs defeated the Moors and expelled the Jews, Spain’s cuisine came to mirror the anti-Jewish sentiment of the era. Animal blood was not kosher, Fàbrega explained, which suddenly made it a desirable ingredient. The same was true for pork, which is in part why Spanish food is so pork-heavy and why traditionally Sephardic-Jewish dishes like adafina (a chickpea-and-lamb stew) morphed into the treif-heavy cocido madrileño with its half-dozen pork products.

But animal blood is seldom sold fresh these days, and consequently it’s largely disappeared from civet. Marc Nus, the chef at Ela Coquèla, told me that he adds whatever blood seeps out of the raw meat to his civets, but it’s basically a drop in the bucket. Times have changed, and most Catalans now get their meat from supermarkets, not from traditional matanças—annual pig slaughters—in which blood was historically harvested for cooking. 
With blood nixed from the ingredient list, how, then, to emulate that velvety mouthfeel and swarthy hue that it imparted? According to Toni Massanés, Catalan food scholar and director of the culinary research center Fundació Alicia, it was only natural that chocolate would be swapped in. “It’s been a pantry staple here for centuries. To my knowledge, only in Catalonia and Mexico do you find chocolate so frequently in savory dishes,” he said. Indeed, Salvador Dalí (who was born in Catalonia) was known to lust after fava beans stewed with marjoram and chocolate.

Having learned this history, it was time to put my civet savoir-faire to the test. With Nus’s recipe in hand, I tossed a Bambi’s worth of venison and a pile of chopped veggies into my biggest bowl, poured over two bottles of garnacha, and let it all hang out in the fridge for a couple of days. (“Do not drink! Not sangría!” I wrote on the label; hey, you never know.) Next came the searing and stewing, which filled my Madrid apartment with an aroma so autumnal that a neighbor knocked on my door to ask what I was making. “It smells like my pueblo,” she said, referring to her home village. Just before serving, I blitzed the sauce and whisked in a splash of pig blood (supplied by my plucky butcher; see if yours can track it down) and a few shards of bittersweet chocolate, and watched excitedly as the sauce turned thick and sheeny. 

As Marcos and I dug in with smiles stretched across our faces, I recalled a quote by the Catalan journalist Josep Pla, who wrote that the cuisine of a place is essentially its landscape tossed into a pot. And how marvelous it was, to be able to travel back to that wild, pristine mountain landscape, spoonful by nostalgic spoonful.

The post You’ll Never Guess the Secret Ingredient in This Hearty Catalan Stew appeared first on Saveur.

When nothing but flavorful, saucy comfort food will do, the whole world turns to curry. Hearty, brothy, and elaborately spiced, the category frequently recalls the vibrant streets of India, but while the dish is certainly rooted in the culinary traditions of the Subcontinent, curry has, through a combination of trade, migration, and colonialism, become a centerpiece for myriad cuisines all around the world. 

Decoding the dish is fairly simple. The word “curry” comes from an anglicized version of the Tamil “kari”—a spiced sauce to be eaten over rice. Some versions are thickened with a starchy roux, while others begin with an aromatic ginger-garlic paste. From there, any medley of fresh or dried spices may be incorporated, as well as meat, seafood, vegetables, or even fruits. Just about any ingredient can be curried. Watermelon takes center stage in a Rajasthani version, while an expansive list of flavor-absorbing root vegetables are widely loved in curries from Japan to South Africa to the Caribbean

While many of these fragrant, warming stews are takeout fixtures, there’s also merit into making them at home. Here are some of our favorite curry recipes from around the globe.

Mozambican Coconut Crab Curry

At Cantinho do Aziz, Khalid Aziz draws crowds with Mozambican dishes that honor his family’s heritage, like this take on a traditional crab curry. The first step for this dish calls for making coconut milk from unsweetened coconut, which has a cleaner flavor and lighter texture than the canned variety. Get the recipe for Mozambican Coconut Crab Curry »

Beef Curry Udon

A sprinkling of the Japanese chile flakes known as ichimi togarashi is the ideal finishing touch for these saucy noodles. Get the recipe for Beef Curry Udon »

Macanese-Style Portuguese Chicken

Sop up the rich coconut-based curry in this chicken dish with jasmine rice or dinner rolls. Get the recipe for Macanese-Style Portuguese Chicken »

Curried Green Mangoes

Curries made with unripe or underripe mangoes are popular in South Asia and parts of the Caribbean. This vegan and gluten-free version comes to us from Jamaican writer Vaughn Stafford Gray, who serves the dish as a condiment, side, or even the main event, alongside fluffy basmati rice or warm roti. Get the recipe for Curried Green Mangoes »

Kai Kawlae (Southern Thai-Style Grilled Chicken)

Chicken, seasoned and grilled over coals, is a staple across Thailand, but a couple elements make this southern variant unique. Most notably, its marinade is essentially a curry, which is painted over the meat in layers as it cooks, resulting in a grilled bird that’s rich, extremely fragrant, and smoky. Get the recipe for Kai Kawlae (Southern Thai-Style Grilled Chicken) »

Sri Lankan Fish Curry

This relatively mild, lightly sour, and deeply aromatic yellow curry, adapted from Yusra and Mohamed Ali Makim, is a breakfast staple eaten throughout Sri Lanka. Get the recipe for Sri Lankan Fish Curry »

Green Curry with Fish and Eggplant (Kaeng Khiaw Waan)

Thai-style dumplings add a nice, bouncy texture to this green curry. Get the recipe for Green Curry with Fish and Eggplant (Kaeng Khiaw Waan) »

Indian Lamb Curry in a Bread Bowl (Bunny Chow)

Bunny chow, a hollowed out bread bowl with a spicy, meaty curried filling, is as delightfully messy as it sounds. You can eat every last morsel of this version from Hollywood Bets in Durban, including the curry-soaked bread from the bottom and sides. Get the recipe for Indian Lamb Curry in a Bread Bowl (Bunny Chow) »

Creamy Indian Chicken Curry (Murgh Korma)

Chicken korma is a beloved Indian recipe that came from the Moghuls (the Muslim rulers of much of India from the 16th to 19th centuries). The meat is lightly browned, then simmered in yogurt and pureed almonds and cashew nuts, which give the dish its creaminess, but what makes it really special are the fragrant spices: I use whole spices and grind them together so their flavors become one in the sauce. Get the recipe for Creamy Indian Chicken Curry (Murgh Korma) »

Phat Phrik Khing Muu (Red Curry with Pork Belly and Green Beans)

This dry curry is caramelized in pork fat rather than cracked coconut cream, and there’s no coconut milk for gravy, making the flavors of the paste—citrusy lemongrass, gingery krachai, briny shrimp—more pronounced. Get the recipe for Phat Phrik Khing Muu (Red Curry with Pork Belly and Green Beans) »

Thalassery Meen Curry (Thalassery-Style Fish Curry)

Any firm fish, including snapper, trout, or salmon, will work in this green mango-infused south Indian curry, named for the Keralan coastal city of Thalassery and flavored with coconut, ginger, curry leaves, and turmeric. Get the recipe for Thalassery Meen Curry (Thalassery-Style Fish Curry) »

Goanese Shrimp Curry (Sembharachi Kodi)

In Goa, a tiny, palm-fringed state on the western coast of India, seafood is central to the cuisine. Beloved regional specialty sembharachi kodi, or shrimp in a coconut curry, is prepared a number of ways, but always with the freshest local shellfish simmered in a rich, chile-spiked coconut sauce. Get the recipe for Goanese Shrimp Curry (Sembharachi Kodi) »

Gulai Masin Kepala Ikan (Padang-Style Red Snapper Curry)

For this aromatic nasi padang dish, red snapper is simmered in a spicy coconut curry. Get the recipe for Indonesian Red Snapper Curry »

Watermelon Curry

A specialty of the Indian state of Rajasthan, this delicious curry plays the sweet, juicy flesh of the watermelon against a complex background of chiles and spices. Get the recipe for Watermelon Curry »

Jain-Style Besan Curry (Chickpea Fritters in Curry)

This Jain-style curry pairs airy chickpea fritters with a creamy, tangy sauce. Get the recipe for Jain-Style Besan Curry (Chickpea Fritters in Curry) »

Vegetarian Potato and Cabbage Curry

This vibrant Indian curry comes from the Meghwal tribe of Gujarat, India. Since there is little local agriculture—the closest vegetable market is in the capital city of Bhuj, 35 miles away—the cuisine is spare, but it is delicious in its simplicity. Get the recipe for Vegetarian Potato and Cabbage Curry »

Burmese Eggplant Curry (Khayan Thee Hnut)

Eggplant is simmered to melting softness in a fantastically pungent curry fortified by shrimp paste. Get the recipe for Burmese Eggplant Curry (Khayan Thee Hnut) »

Chingudi Chhecha (Odisha-Style Shrimp Curry)

Sweet shrimp are fried with fragrant spices and aromatics and then ground to create this homestyle dish from the east Indian state of Odisha. Fresh cilantro adds a zesty, herbaceous note. Get the recipe for Odisha Shrimp Curry »

Curried Chicken

Bathed in fragrant curry- and ginger-infused coconut milk, this stew is a popular breakfast dish at Kingston cafés. Get the recipe for Curried Chicken »

Smita Chandra’s Daikon Curry

Kaeng Kàrìi (Yellow Curry with Beef and Potatoes)

The dried spices in this complex, coconut-enriched Thai curry from chef Andy Ricker of Pok Pok reveal its South Asian origins. Ricker’s advice, from his October 2013 article The Star of Siam: “Follow the recipe exactly the first time, then adjust the seasonings and the coconut milk. Put your stamp on it. After all, that’s what the Thai do.” Get the recipe for Kaeng Kàrìi (Yellow Curry with Beef and Potatoes) »

The post Curry Is Not A Spice appeared first on Saveur.

Dear bell pepper. You sweet charmer, thank you for not trying to actively hurt us. 

The milder cousin of the capsicum genus, the bell pepper is heftier and far milder than than most of its fiery cousins—but it’s hardly short on flavor. Red, green, and yellow versions of this colorful breed adorn conventional supermarket produce sections year-round, while at the green market, late summer invites a full spectrum of the reliable nightshade, ranging from ghostly white to moody purple. 

Due to its inoffensive and aromatic flavor profile, the bell pepper melds as easily into complex dishes as onions and celery. In fact, this trio of ingredients makes up the Cajun and Creole culinary “Holy Trinity,” which is incorporated, with rare exception, into gumbos, jambalayas, and other Louisiana classics. 

Bell peppers are also widely loved in Europe, where they frequently take center stage in summery pastas and sandwiches, while in Asia, delicate slivers often make for a crunchy and elegant addition to salads, slaw, and stir-frys.

Roasting and grilling blisters pepper skins, providing a compellingly smoky note, while poaching in oil draws out the ingredients’ sweetness and depth. Try adding them to omelettes, pizzas, or pickles, or check out even more ideas in our collection of bell pepper recipes below.

Paneer Tikka Kebabs

Charred bell peppers and onions balance the mily richness of fresh cheese in these colorful vegetarian skewers. Get the recipe for Paneer Tikka Kebabs »

Grilled Octopus with Green Lentils and Romesco

The trick to achieving tender, flavorful octopus is to first boil it before finishing on the grill. Serve the tentacled sea creature with a fiery red pepper romesco. Get the recipe for Grilled Octopus with Green Lentils and Romesco »

Fettuccine with Pesto Cream Sauce, Roasted Red Peppers, and Spinach

Pesto, parmesan, and heavy cream makes for a rich sauce for vegetables and fettuccine. Get the recipe for Fettuccine with Pesto Cream Sauce, Roasted Red Peppers, and Spinach »

Mallorcan Red Pepper Tart (Coca Mallorquina)

Marinated and roasted red peppers top a crunchy, olive oil-rich crust in this Mallorcan red pepper tart, also known coca mallorquina, from chef Fabio Trabocchi. Get the recipe for Mallorcan Red Pepper Tart (Coca Mallorquina) »

Pimento Cheese Sandwich with Homemade Pickles

Adding sriracha to chunky pimento cheese ups the spice factor and offsets the creaminess of the cheddar. Get the recipe for Pimento Cheese Sandwich with Homemade Pickles »

Lao Tomato Dip

Penn Hongthong, the author of Simple Laotian Cooking (Hippocrene, 2003), taught us that charring the vegetables for this dip is the secret to its smoky flavor. Get the recipe for Lao Tomato Dip »

Rye’s Red Chili

Pulled pork stands in for the burnt ends of barbecued brisket in this robust Kansas City-style bean chili. Get the recipe for Rye’s Red Chili »

Spaghetti alla Chitarra with Lamb and Sweet Pepper Ragù

Lighter than the rich and meaty ragùs of other Italian regions, this Abruzzo specialty features bell peppers mixed into the sauce and cooked briefly so they retain their shape and lend a pop of sweetness. Get the recipe for Spaghetti alla Chitarra with Lamb and Sweet Pepper Ragù »

Roast Beef Sandwich with Walnut Romesco

A chunky romesco sauce brings out the beefiness in this hearty sandwich. Get the recipe for Roast Beef Sandwich with Walnut Romesco »

Four Pepper Jelly

Jalapeños, red bell peppers, poblanos, and serranos come together in this spicy-sweet jelly from Elizabeth Stark, the blogger behind Brooklyn Supper. Get the recipe for Four Pepper Jelly »

Batter-Fried Peppers and Bananas

Chickpea flour is the base of the frying batter for this appealing Gujarati snack. Get the recipe for Batter-Fried Peppers and Bananas »

Portuguese Red Bell Pepper Paste (Massa de Pimentão)

The process for preparing this Portuguese condiment is long, but it is rewarding. Get the recipe for Portuguese Red Pepper Paste (Massa de Pimentão) »

Potato, Spinach, and Red Pepper Frittata

Sausage and Peppers

Skillet-seared sausage with fried peppers and onions is a simple yet filling campfire meal. Get the recipe for Sausage and Peppers »

Fort Rice Pilaf

This hearty pilaf draws its sweetness from dried fruit, earthiness from black quinoa and pine nuts, and crunch and color from bell pepper. Get the recipe for Fort Rice Pilaf »

Smoked Turkey and Adouille Gumbo

Louisiana’s Café Vermilionville smokes the turkey for this luxurious gumbo right out back in a makeshift smoker. The resulting dish embodies the rich flavors of dark roux and barbecued meat. Get the recipe for Smoked Turkey and Adouille Gumbo »

Sausage with Peppers and Onion

Skillet-seared sausage with fried peppers and onions is a simple, filling campfire meal. For extra heft, pile the sausages and vegetables into fire-toasted buns. Get the recipe for Sausage with Peppers and Onion »

The post Don’t Sleep on the Humble Bell Pepper appeared first on Saveur.