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.

Paris’ most emblematic sandwich, the jambon beurre, may be in danger. Last Tuesday, the French Government announced a “plan of action” to reduce the use of nitrites—an additive commonly found in cured meats—in food. The news came on the same day that the country’s national health security agency (ANSES) confirmed a link between the consumption of processed meats containing nitrites and certain types of cancer. 

The agency called for limiting the use of nitrites to what’s “strictly necessary”—as little as possible while not creating adverse health impacts. Nitrites serve as a preservative and prevent the growth of noxious microorganisms. But they also add flavor and color: in the case of baked ham, they lend the meat its characteristic blushing pink hue.

The cured meats industry, unsurprisingly, was quick to respond to the government’s announcement. But their reaction wasn’t quite what one might expect. 

According to Bernard Vallat, president of France’s cured meat industry federation (FICT), the organization was satisfied that the plan calls for reducing nitrites, rather than entirely eliminating them. As he explained on a phone call, the industry in France had been scaling back on nitrites since 2016, from 150 milligrams per kilo (the maximum allowed under European Union regulations) to 100 milligrams. 

“Along with Denmark, we are the country that uses the least nitrites in charcuterie. We did it because we knew we were facing societal pressure, as people are emphasizing more natural products and fewer additives,” said Vallat. In fact, the federation supports reducing the maximum permissible amount even further. “But first, there’s an enormous amount of research to be done.”

Baked ham, such as “Prince de Paris” (considered by many to be the gold standard for French ham), represents about 25% of the charcuterie industry in France. According to Vallat, approximately 15% of those producers are already nitrite-free. Instead, they’re using a newer additive called Prosur, which is made in Spain. But it’s not as effective as nitrites, so products made with it have a much shorter shelf life. The biggest barrier holding up its adoption is that it’s more expensive: “Only huge corporations have been able to use it. Smaller companies can’t afford it for now,” said Vallat.  

Vallat says the biggest consequence of the French Government’s proposed plan of action is a crisis of public perception. Since manufacturers had already been reducing the use of nitrites, the call for their reduction won’t impact production. “The problem is the media campaign that influences consumers and could hurt consumption. They’ll decide to eat something else,” he said. For now, all the industry can do is reiterate its commitment to adhering to government regulations and continuing its quest to minimize nitrites to the extent possible.  

Strictly speaking, the jambon beurre won’t be affected by the French government—not yet, at least. But whether the established cancer link prompts Parisians and visitors to opt for a different sandwich is another question entirely.

The post France Says Non To Nitrites—and the Country’s Meat Industry Is on Board appeared first on Saveur.

In the U.S., South Asian food is quickly becoming more easily accessible and better understood, which has helped propel the growing appetite for regional flavors among Western consumers.  Thankfully, young entrepreneurs from countries like India, Sri Lanka, and Pakistan, as well as first- and second-generation South Asian Americans, have begun to share their love and passion for the foods they grew up with by bringing their own essential pantry staples to market. Fourteen years ago, when I immigrated to Upstate New York from Pakistan for culinary school, finding high-quality chaat masala and achaar was nearly impossible. I would bring chai back in my suitcase with me whenever I took a trip home. Now, with a click of a button, I can easily stock my shelves with all my favorites from anywhere in the country—and even trace my spices right back to the South Asian farms they came from.

I’ve pulled together some of my favorite new South Asian food businesses below. All are deserving of your attention and support for bringing super-fresh spices, vibrant condiments, and aromatic teas to a national audience. So if you want to recreate that cup of masala chai you had at your favorite local Indian restaurant, elevate your cheeseboard with some new spreads and preserves, or are just looking for a great new hot sauce to spice up your morning scramble, these brands prove that South Asia is a great place to start.

The Sampler Pack by Sach Food

Most of the packaged paneers available in the U.S. are rubbery and squeaky between the teeth, but not this one from Sach (pronounced “such”) Foods. Born from the need for high-quality protein, the two vegetarian founders are Indian immigrants who couldn’t find a version of the firm fresh cheese they had back home, so they decided to make their own. The California brand’s sampler pack includes three flavors—plain which is great for any application, Spicy Habanero, which I love in eggs, and Turmeric Twist, which is my aunt’s favorite in saag paneer. Made with organic, grass-fed milk, Sach’s cheese is exceptionally creamy and smooth, yet still firm enough to hold its shape when cooked. Try it marinated and cooked on the grill, lightly battered and pan-fried for paneer pakoras, or simmered in a light tomato gravy for ruangan chaman. Or just eat it like me and my daughter do, thinly sliced and layered on toast with jam.

Sweet Clarity by House of Waris

Whether it’s to start the day, to rebound from the mid-afternoon slump, or as a soothing end to a long shift or a big meal—anytime, really—a cup of tea is a non-negotiable in South Asian homes. Bringing his Indian heritage to House of Waris, actor, designer, and Brooklynite Waris Ahluwalia is advocating for tea as an important form of self-care, and a moment to slow down. My favorite is the brand’s Sweet Clarity herbal blend. Loaded with roots and spices including tulsi, rhodiola, and ginger which are traditionally used to treat brain fog, fatigue, stress, and circulation issues, I find it to be a flavorful, caffeine-free alternative to coffee after lunch.

Panjiri by Babo Concept Kitchen

Traditionally eaten by women in Pakistan and India for nourishment and recovery after childbirth, panjiri is now widely consumed throughout South Asia by anyone in need of healing, energy, or for those looking to keep their body warm in cold weather. The sweet, dry crumble is made with nuts, ghee, sugar, and warm spices such as cumin. Homemade panjiri, easily found in the subcontinent, was hard to find in the West when I became a mother, and so the accessibility of Babo’s fresh and balanced panjiri is thrilling. A small business from California, Babo is owned by Rubab Waheed, a self-taught cook who prepares traditional Pakistani foods with a modern sensibility. The mix is typically eaten with a spoon, or by the palmfull, however, I’ve found it also works nicely in Western applications as well. Try it as a filling for cinnamon rolls, sprinkle it over yogurt or ice cream, or swirl it into your cookie doughs.

Luminous Capsule by Brightland

Honey is a culinary and medicinal staple in South Asia, where it’s widely used to soothe sore and scratchy throats, and sweeten teas, breads, and other dishes. Aishwarya Iyer, a Californian with Indian heritage, initially launched Brightland as a premium olive oil company, but I’m particularly taken with the brand’s orange blossom honey. With its subtle savory notes, and delicate citrus, caramel, and floral aromas, it’s extremely versatile in the kitchen. Add it to dressings, marinades, drinks, or like me, enjoy it right out of the jar by the spoonful. You can either buy this honey paired with a darker Hawaiian version, or as a part of the Luminous Capsule set, which includes a bottle of Brightland’s robust, extra-virgin olive oil and a citrus-scented chardonnay vinegar.

Tomato Achaar by Brooklyn Delhi 

Often used to elevate the simplest dahls, tomato achaar is an essential pickled condiment in Indian and Pakistani homes, where it’s typically handmade. Loaded with the usual aromatic suspects—turmeric, garlic, tamarind—and of course, tomatoes, Brooklyn Delhi’s achaar has just the right balance of sweetness, salt, acidity, and savoriness. Started by cookbook author and Saveur contributor, Chittra Agrawal, the New York brand specializes in plant-based condiments and sauces which I like to add to soups, eggs, or even pasta. You can find these fresh and flavorful products in national grocery stores, including Whole Foods, local specialty markets, or online.

Teeno Bundle by Peepal People

Translating to “bundle of three,” Peepal People’s Teeno Bundle is a great way to sample everything from this Pakistani-owned Texas brand. From the mild and mellow to fiery, the family-run business has tried to fill the gap of South Asian flavors in a familiar American form: bottled hot sauces. Hot sauces as we know them here are not found in Pakistan, but spice and chile heat most definitely are. By combining traditional Pakistani achaar-making techniques with Texas-grown chiles, Peepal People has created an easy-to-love range of condiments that crosses cultural borders. Try these sauces in marinades, over chicken, or even in ramen. The mildest blend, Hara Bhara has bright green flavors that shine in beans and lentils. The spiciest, Bhoot Bangla (which, hilariously, translates to “haunted house”), is loaded with ghost chiles and draws further sharpness from lots of garlic; it’s not for the faint of heart and is best reserved for hearty dishes like steak and barbecue. My favorite, though, is their Peela Patakha sauce, which splits the difference with a moderate heat and boasts beautiful floral, and pepper-forward flavors that go well on eggs. The latter is sold out at the moment, but keep an eye out because it’s due back in stock in July.

Immunity Essentials by Atina Foods

Founded by Suresh Pillai and Carrie Dashow, in New York’s Catskills, Atina Foods’ recipes are rooted in Ayurvedic practices, where food is considered medicine. Suresh is from Kerala, India, the home of Ayurveda, and he brings to his brand years traveling, and knowledge from the women in his family. Atina’s Immunity Essentials box includes three incredibly versatile herbal jams and pickles featuring antioxidant-rich Ayurvedic powerhouse ingredients believed to boost immunity and protect against inflammation. The Turmeric-Ginger Jam is great for elevating a cheeseboard or your morning yogurt, while the Inji Puli (a ginger-tamarind herbal jam) shines in both sweet and savory applications—think topping a chocolate cake, or mixing into mayo for your next sandwich. The Garlic Scape Pickle is great for finishing simple, fresh dishes like pan-fried fish or pasta. Lastly, the box also includes an Indian-style pickling kit with instructions, for whenever inspiration hits at home. Contrasting and layered flavors of sweet, salty, and savory, the package was made for the holidays, but really is an evergreen gift.

The 6 Pack Masala Collection by Spicewalla (6 pack Masala, Aleppo, Ajwain, Black Cardamom)

Where do I go when I’m looking for beautiful whole spices or hard-to-find powdered blends? Spicewalla, founded by Indian-born and Asheville, North Carolina-based chef Meherwarn Irani.  Irani is a restaurant-owner and a core member of Brown in the South, a series of pop-up dinners celebrating Indian chefs who have made the American South their home. His spice company, Spicewalla, offers dozens of options, all packaged in small containers, which ensure your pantry is always stocked with fresh, flavorful ingredients. The Six-Pack Masala Collection includes some great classics to get you started. Stir the tandoori masala into yogurt for a fantastic lamb chop marinade, sprinkle the chaat masala over hot french fries, steep the chai masala in your next pot of tea, use the garam masala to perfume a pot of biryani, and add the pakora masala to the batter for my asparagus pakoras. The mild, Madras-style curry powder is wonderful added to soups and stews.

Original Chai Concentrate by One Stripe Chai

You’re probably already familiar with cold brew coffee concentrate, but chai concentrate? Genius. Farah Jesani, Chief Chai Officer of Portland, Oregon’s One Stripe Chai, created this tea concentrate for chai drinkers on the go. Her Indian heritage means she’s a tea drinker, and she created her business so she could find a pre-made blend that was neither bland nor too sweet. The chic glass bottle holds enough for 8 cups of chai, which can be easily mixed either hot or cold. Pre-sweetened with honey and jaggery, and brewed with black Assam tea, it’s a great solution for anyone looking for a quick and un-fussy cup. Try it as a midday pick-me-up, or for that first jolt of caffeine in the morning.

Turmeric Latte by Kola Goodies

Sajani Amarsiri founded Kola Goodies to bring the flavors of her home country, Sri Lanka, closer to her in San Francisco. In recent years, thanks to a plethora of purported health benefits, turmeric milk has exploded in popularity in the Western wellness world, so she decided to offer this traditional South Asian drink and other milk-based Sri Lankan beverages in a convenient just-add-water form. With cinnamon and turmeric sourced from Sri Lanka, and ashwagandha, a plant traditionally used to treat stress, this turmeric latte is particularly flavorful and soothing.

Pantry Refresh by Diaspora Co. 

When she moved from Mumbai to California, Sana Javeri Kadri quickly realized the need for an equitable spice trade, so she began Diaspora Co. an online source for 30 single-origin spices that can be traced right back to the people who grew them. If you’re curious about the brand but don’t know where to start, I suggest the Pantry Refresh. This set includes my own two kitchen essentials—medium-heat chile powder, and ground turmeric—as well as black mustard seeds, ground ginger, (which I love for baking,) coriander seed, and my absolute favorite, the versatile and floral black pepper.

The post Stock Your Pantry Like a Seasoned South Asian Cook appeared first on Saveur.

Food is more than what’s on the plate. This is Equal Portions, a series by editor-at-large Shane Mitchell, investigating bigger issues and activism in the food world, and how a few good eggs are working to make it better for everyone.

“Right now, I like to use my son’s Crayola marker, because it’s like I’m a kid again,” says Nat Chanthanaluck, one of the proprietors of the family-owned Tree Top Thai restaurant in Waltham, Massachusetts. In this Boston suburb defined by modest bungalows and a low-rise main street, his storefront catches the eye with its cheerful purple awning and flower-filled sidewalk planters, on a residential block between a sub sandwich joint and an auto repair shop. To know Tree Top Thai, which opened 22 years ago, you really have to live in the immediate neighborhood. On busy nights, the restaurant seats a maximum of 30 people—but that was before the pandemic, when Chanthanaluck switched to takeout and delivery only.

To stay in touch with regulars, he pens customers’ names in cursive script on each plain brown paper bag that goes out the door. Chanthanaluck often adds messages like “stay safe” before bad weather hits or when COVID-19 cases spike. When orders are slow, he has time for more elaborate sketches, like the Statue of Liberty wearing a surgical mask. As a child in rural northern Thailand, Chanthanaluck taught himself calligraphy by studying magazines in his aunt’s seamstress shop and hand-drawn posters outside the local movie theater. (Printed ads were too expensive, he explains, so local artists made the signs for each new film.) When he graduated to secondary school, Chanthanaluck was sent to live in Bangkok with extended family, where he cut vegetables in his uncle’s restaurant. “That’s what Thai kids traditionally do,” he says. “You have to help out with the family business.” After completing a trade degree in art, Chanthanaluck immigrated to Massachusetts where his mother lived, and he eventually opened his own restaurant. Now, his family, including his wife and cousins, help with the cooking. “A lot of customers tried to save us when the lockdown happened,” he says. “They wanted to support us, and I really appreciate them. So this is how I say thank you.”

The care that Chanthanaluck shows his neighborhood goes beyond customer appreciation. He’s adding flair to a service many are increasingly taking for granted in the age of impersonal delivery apps. Giving thanks is an important way to express humanity when small businesses like his have been inordinately impacted by current events, particularly in Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) communities, where, according to the Stop AAPI Hate coalition, crimes ranging from verbal harassment to physical assault have reached unprecedented levels.

“Throughout the pandemic, AAPI mom-and-pops have been targeted,” says culinary historian and activist Grace Young, who has been named “Humanitarian of the Year” by the James Beard Foundation for her #LoveAAPI social media campaign and Welcome to Chinatown initiatives. “All across the country—Boston, San Francisco, New York—these eateries and shops that were all about a person-to-person experience? Shunned and shuttered. Bakeries, produce markets, grocers, five-and-dimes: the heart-and-soul places that really personify ‘small town USA.’ We lost so many legacy restaurants when the only thing you could have was takeout. It was apocalyptic.”

As New York’s Chinatown classics like Hop Shing and Lung Moon Bakery closed permanently, something more than menus featuring dim sum or pineapple buns disappeared. Young attests that downtown streets emptied after dark because people were afraid to go out—especially the elderly. That’s when Heart of Dinner came to the rescue. Founded by partners Moonlynn Tsai and Yin Chang, who started cooking informal care packages in their tiny Lower East Side apartment, the two-year-old organization now works with a local network of restaurants, farmers, and volunteers to deliver culturally appropriate hot lunches, groceries, and pantry essentials to homebound Asian American seniors struggling with isolation and food insecurity in multiple boroughs. “We’ve served over 110,000 meals so far,” says Tsai. “We focus on nutrient-dense dishes, like the ones your grandparents might have made for you. Soy-braised whitefish with rice, cabbage with goji berries, mapo tofu, tomato egg. They taste homemade, reminiscent of childhood.”

Meals are only part of their message. Chang remembers while growing up that her working mom left comforting notes around the house for her to find, and the couple took up the practice together, composing letters of endearment for each other. “So when Heart of Dinner started in 2020, we wrote in black markers on plastic containers: ‘We are thinking of you and we love you’ in Chinese characters,” she says. “We wanted our elderly to feel like they were being wrapped in a hug from our entire community.” Those quickly penned notes were the genesis for what would become Heart of Dinner’s signature—creatively decorated bags and thoughtful dispatches in the recipient’s native tongue—attached to every delivery. “We received thousands of notes, piling in from all around the world, in all these languages,” says Chang. “We now have people hosting bag drives and illustration days.”

Of course, love letters aren’t always the written kind. They can also be something extra on the plate. “Suh-bee-seu, or service, is when a restaurant sends out a free dish, maybe a little corn cheese or a nigiri,” says Eric Kim, author of Korean American: Food That Tastes Like Home. “It’s thanks for stopping by, often a note of familiarity, and happens a lot in Atlanta when my dad accompanies us to a restaurant and the owner recognizes him. Koreans like free stuff, and this service is closely tied to a notion of hospitality that’s specific and special.”

“It’s called li shang wang lai in Cantonese,” says Janet Chan, whose father owned a restaurant in Chicago’s Chinatown. Now based in San Francisco, she started posting her favorite dishes and discoveries—potstickers, mooncakes, egg custard tarts and peanut puffs, roast duck, even Hong Kong café-style baked spaghetti—on her Instagram @sfchinatown.today to show the community was still open for business. “They might give regulars an extra bao, or won’t charge for a plastic bag. But if I told my dad, ‘Put in a little note’? He would say, ‘We don’t time to do that kind of stuff.’”

Chanthanaluck explains that the Thai expression for this free treat is called thæm, or giveaway. “It means you buy one thing, but the owner wants to give you more.” And for him, that means keeping his markers, watercolors, charcoals and pencils ready when orders appear in the kitchen. “I just want to give them joy. When I started to do the calligraphy, even teenagers were excited. I hope they try themselves, instead of using the keyboard. That’s why I keep doing it.”

Please consider donating to the KK Discount Store Recovery Fund, one of New York’s multi-generational mom-and-pop businesses known for supplying many Chinese restaurants. This legacy store was recently gutted by a two-alarm fire and forced to close until the city allows the Li family to rebuild.

The post In These AAPI Communities, Meals Arrive With a Pleasant Surprise appeared first on Saveur.

The art of blending is what Julia Momosé, author of the forthcoming The Way of the Cocktail: Japanese Traditions, Techniques & Recipes and owner of Chicago’s Kumiko, thinks of first when Japanese whisky comes to mind. “In America, the conversation is always about distillate, whereas in Japan, the conversation is all about blending,” she says. This contrast stems from the unique origins of Japanese whisky production and how it morphed to appeal to local drinkers.

A century ago, Suntory founder Shinjiro Torii became interested in making the spirit in his home country and Masataka Taketsuru brought home knowledge from Scotland of how to do so. But when Torii’s first whisky, made in the style of Scotch, struggled to find an audience with Japanese palates, he set out to create one that would pair well with bubbly water—in what’s known as a highball—to appeal to beer drinkers. To Momosé, that forms one of the distinctions of Japanese whisky: “It is amazing when you add water to it, either in the form of ice, or club soda for a highball.”

But while Japanese whisky started out modeled after Scotch, “it’s also its own category,” says Tommy Patrick, owner of The Ballard Cut, a Seattle bar that specializes in the style. “It’s much more delicate than Scotch; it’s softer, it’s significantly more approachable.” Early on, it was often stereotyped by U.S. customers as smooth and sweet, but that oversimplifies the complex universe of Japanese whisky. While the spirit’s characteristics were initially similar to the Scotch, Irish, and American whiskies that it started out imitating, it evolved almost entirely in Japan, isolated from other markets and catering only to Japanese tastes. “They just continued to quietly do it, even if it wasn’t getting world attention,” says Patrick. “It really shows how much they care about it.”

About a decade ago, the U.S. began to take notice, and in the last five years, Japanese whisky imports to the US have tripled, causing shortages of sought-after bottles and leaving brands scrambling to fill the demand. Production of Japanese whisky ramped up immediately after the sales jump, though the aging process means producers only recently started bottling products in larger quantities, making great Japanese whisky increasingly affordable and accessible.

The sudden arrival of an entire category, spanning price ranges across a variety of styles, means that most people need a little help navigating the nuances and understanding the geography of Japanese whisky producers. “It’s very confusing,” admits Patrick. So, for anyone looking to begin—or deepen—their understanding of Japanese whisky, this guide shares some of our favorites.

• Best For Cocktails: Suntory Whisky Toki
• Best Value: Hibiki Japanese Harmony
• Best for the Bourbon Lover: Nikka Coffey Grain Whisky
• Best Intro to Japanese Single Malt: Mars Whisky Iwai Tradition
• Best Intro to Japanese Blended Whisky: Chichibu Ichiro’s Malt & Grain
• Best Single Malt: Hakashu Single Malt 18 Year
• Best Super Splurge: Yamazaki Single Malt Mizunara 18 Year

Our Top Picks

Best For Cocktails: Suntory Whisky Toki

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“Bang for your buck, the easiest mixing whisky,” says Patrick of the entry-level whisky that Suntory makes using a blend from three different distilleries in Japan. “For someone just starting into Japanese whisky,” Momosé echoes, “That’s the place I like to take them.” Light and refreshing, it works well in highballs, which is the main purpose for which it is made.

Best Value: Hibiki Japanese Harmony

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This smooth, well-rounded whisky is Patrick’s personal favorite blended whisky, which he describes as “elegant.” Reasonably widely available and sold at well under three figures, it shows off the smoothness for which Japanese whisky is known without any harshness, and has a light sweetness that leans rich rather than cloying. “A gorgeous mid-range” whisky, says Momosé. Sure, the Hibiki bottles with age statements take those highlights and amplify them, but you’ll pay a lot more for them.

Best for the Bourbon Lover: Nikka Coffey Grain Whisky

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Named for Nicholas Coffey, the inventor of the column still in which this whisky is made, this attractive bottle transports American bourbon drinkers across the Pacific with its heavily corn-based mashbill. Momosé notes the flavors of cornflakes, vanilla, and orange, saying “it’s easy-going, with the sweetness the bourbon drinker looks for.” For anyone looking to put it in a cocktail, she says it works well in an Old Fashioned.

Best Intro to Japanese Single Malt: Mars Whisky Iwai Tradition

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Soft and slightly smoky, with a little bit of sherry cask coming through, this single malt from Mars’s Hombo Shuzo distillery gives an enjoyable lesson in Japanese single malt. The dark fruit that results from the time it spends in its sherry cask makes it good for mixing, too, says Momosé—she suggests a highball with a splash of sherry to really emphasize those flavors.

Best Intro to Blended Whisky: Chichibu Ichiro’s Malt & Grain

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Patrick describes Ichiro Akuto as “a rockstar of the Japanese whisky world,” and the many impressive whiskies coming out of Chichibu take his name. The Malt & Grain is labeled a “worldwide blend,” and forms the first step into the world of Ichiro’s Malt whisky. “Super drinkable,” says Patrick, of the spirit’s tropical and dried fruit flavors.

Best Single Malt: Hakashu Single Malt 18 Year

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“Restrained but peaty,” describes Momosé, who calls this whisky “beautiful,” and says that you can’t go wrong with it. Though not priced unreasonably ($250 to 300) in stores, it can be hard to find and secondary market prices can quickly quadruple that. But for someone looking to invest in a peated single malt, the flavors of green apple and lemon thyme that sneak around the smokiness of the peat make this a choice bottle.

Best Super Splurge: Yamazaki Single Malt Mizunara 18 Year

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Say you have a ton of money, and maybe a bit of extra time to look for an incredible bottle to just absolutely bowl you over: This is the one you want. Its bold flavors start with unmistakable notes of butterscotch, but, describes Patrick, “older oxidized butterscotch candy that hasn’t had its wrapper in a year,” rather than standard straightforward sweetness, before flowing silkily into an umami-laden finish.

Features to Keep in Mind

Regulations

Thanks to the spirit’s recent popularity spike in the United States and beyond, and in hopes to weed out imposters or lesser-quality products, Japanese producers are banding together to define what the term “Japanese whisky” really means. Earlier this year, the Japan Spirits & Liqueurs Makers Association announced new labeling standards, focusing on transparency. Though the involved producers choose to do so voluntarily, the association requires anything labeled as Japanese whisky (or using related names or symbols) to use malted grains and water extracted in Japan; to do certain elements of processing in Japan, including fermentation, distillation, and bottling (at a minimum of 40% ABV); and to be matured in wood casks for at least three years in Japan.

Terms to Know

Scotch lovers and whisky drinkers are already familiar with the term single malt, which is a malted whisky made from malted barley (as opposed to grain whisky, which is made from corn, rye, wheat, and maybe some malted barley) at a single distillery. Similarly, blended whisky is made by blending from various distilleries. However, because Japanese whisky producers often operate multiple distilleries in different parts of the country, these can all be (and usually are, unlike in Scotland) from the same producer, just from different locations. The term pure malt is no longer used in Scotland, but is in Japan, to mean a blended malt whisky. Another term specific to Japanese whisky is world whisky, which is used by distillers in Japan to describe their spirits that don’t fit the qualifications of Japanese whisky—ones that have been made or aged elsewhere, have low ABV, or any other disqualifying element.

Age Statements

Many Japanese whiskies come with an age statement, or how long they’ve matured in wood barrels, like 12-year, 18-year, or longer. But bottles that don’t include an age statement have also been aged: most Japanese whisky (and all in the new labeling agreement) is aged a minimum of three years. Any bottle with an age statement could include older whisky, but nothing younger than the statement, while a bottle without an age statement could include older whisky, but also whisky of any age. “The problem is, none of this was cool 20 years ago,” explains Patrick. “And that’s when all this stuff was being put down on oak.” So when the demand for Japanese whisky skyrocketed, many distillers leaned on bottles without age statements to sell blends of younger whisky with their longer-aged product.

Barrels

Most whisky today, in Japan and elsewhere, ages in American white oak, but different woods used in the cask change the flavor, and some of the best Japanese whisky branches out from that. Sherry casks tend to bring dark fruit flavors, while shortages during and after World War II drove distillers to use a Japanese oak called mizunara, which lends a beguiling flavor often described as sandalwood or coconut. However, the use of this wood isn’t particularly sustainable: Mizunara trees take 150 to 200 years to grow large enough to use, plus it doesn’t grow in a conducive shape to turning into barrels, making it expensive and rare.

Ask the Experts

How is Japanese whisky different from other whisky?

For one, “Japanese whisky doesn’t get over-diluted,” says Momosé, noting that there are 10-plus different servings of whisky and water in Japan, including ice, club soda, and other highballs. But the only hard and fast rule in Japan is that you can’t use koji—rice. The new labeling standards will go some distance to help solidify what makes Japanese whisky different, but as of right now, “it’s the Japanese expertise in blending that is making it so special,” says Momosé. “That is what makes it unique to Japan.”

How should I store Japanese whisky?

Storing Japanese whisky is pretty simple—keep it in a relatively cool place, out of direct sunlight. Once open, a little bit of oxygen is okay, but when you get to around 40% of the way through, says Patrick, “you have about a year until it turns.” Not that it will go bad, but he adds that “it loses about 80 to 90% of the characteristics the person who made it wanted it to have.” To keep it beyond that, both Patrick and Momosé suggest spraying a bit of argon gas into the bottle (similar to what the Coravin system uses for wine) to stop the continued oxidation. “But whisky’s meant to be drunk,” says Momosé. “So I do hope people are opening special bottles and enjoying them.”

What mixes well with Japanese whisky?

“A drink is only as good as the poorest ingredient you put in there,” says Patrick. So if you buy a bottle of Hibiki Harmony to make fancy Old Fashioneds, he says, “spend the extra money to get nice bitters and demerara sugar.”

The Last Word

Japanese whisky sits on the precipice of exciting times, as the stronger labeling standards go into place and more aged product comes onto the market. “I’m excited to see what actually happens,” says Patrick. “As of right now, it’s scarce,” but he expects the next five to ten years to bring a boom to the category, with products more sustainably-produced and accessible, plus new spirits coming to the market. If you can’t find bottles at your local liquor store, says Momosé, “check out the bar.” That’s where you can taste rarer whisky without having to spring for, or track down, entire bottles, and will find newer distilleries, like Akkeshi, which both she and Patrick mentioned as something new that they couldn’t wait to see more widely available.

The post The Best Japanese Whiskies for Cocktail Enthusiasts, Bourbon Lovers, and More appeared first on Saveur.

Stuffed grape leaves have always been one of my white whales. While I grew up enjoying the occasional dolma from Greek, Armenian, and Syrian friends and family, and even baked for a stint at a Middle Eastern-inflected café in Cambridge, I had never made my own. They remained in the realm of soup dumplings, kouign amann, and a proper mole: regionally specific foods that I just didn’t have the patience or the cred to make with any real skill or authenticity.

That had to change when my friend Genevieve Brennan gave me some fresh leaves from her family’s Pennsylvania vineyard. You see, when it comes to Yankee thrift, I’m the apple of my grandpa’s eye; never one to let something so perfectly good as those lovely leaves go to waste. Especially since I’d been daydreaming about harvesting the Brennans’ cool fresh vine trimmings from their fledgling winery all winter long.

It was time to conquer the stuffed grape leaf.

Grape leaves are a staple of southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and beyond, with each cuisine bringing its own variations on stuffings and seasonings. So I sought out expert advice from a diverse set of sources:

• Dr. Benefits, a Mediterranean food writer (and pal of our Greece correspondent Katherine Whittaker), for tips on classic Greek rice-and-herb dolmadakia.
• My former bosses, Ana Sortun and Maura Kilpatrick, the creators of a crispy lamb dolma pie for their gorgeous new cookbook, Soframiz.
• Finally, I dug into the Saveur archives and found a Syrian-Jewish recipe for sweet and savory stuffed grape leaves with beef, tamarind, and dried apricots.

After a few rounds of tests and some silly experimentation with a quick and efficient dolma-rolling gadget, I can proudly say I’ve overcome my grape leaf insecurities and added dolmas to my culinary skill set. Here are a few things I’ve learned to help get you there, too.

Leaves Matter

Whenever possible, use fresh grape leaves, which taste, as you might guess, more fresh and vibrant. Choose young tender, blemish-free leaves throughout the spring and early summer and store them flat, layered with paper towels, in the refrigerator until you are ready to use them.

Out of season, chef Ana Sortun uses beautiful salt-cured leaves from Sevan Bakery in Massachusetts, but sometimes the jarred version are all you can find. There is a huge variety of brands out there and they vary wildly in quality; Sortun recommends Orlando brand leaves from California. We used this brand for all of our tests and found them consistent, fairly evenly sized, with very little bitterness.

Whether using fresh leaves, salted, or jarred, you’ll need to blanch them before cooking; fresh leaves need it to tenderize them, and the preserved types benefit from a quick dunk to remove some brine.

Bring a large pot of unsalted water to a rolling boil and fill a large bowl two-thirds of the way full of ice water. Plunge the leaves in the boiling water and cook for one to two minutes, drain, and immediately transfer to the ice water to stop cooking. Drain again and lightly pat them dry before using. Don’t blanch until you’re ready to cook with them.

Free Your Expectations About Fillings

Beef Dolmas with Apricots and Tamarind

You might have eaten a thousand rice-stuffed, olive-bar dolmadakia in your life, but don’t let that ubiquity hinder your imagination when it comes to stuffing your own. Anything wrapped in a grape leaf can be a dolma, and sometimes even the grape leaf part is negotiable. Try orzo or bulgur in place of rice; use any variety of herbs and tender veggies; consider all kinds of meat to dolmafy your life.

But the classic Greek filling of rice with fresh herbs is also the simplest. Served either hot or cold, it pops with chopped dill, spring onions, and citrus. Soaking the rice for 10 minutes prior to mixing the filling will cut down on the amount of time needed to cook the dolmas, preventing the herbs and grape leaves from becoming mushy.

Meat dolmas can include beef, lamb, or a mixture of the two. One of our favorites, a recipe from Syrian Jewish cuisine, includes a fat spoonful of allspice and a sweet and sour apricot-tamarind braising liquid.

Shaping is Important…But There are Many Ways to Do It

Spicy Lamb and Grape Leaf Tarts With Orzo and Feta

The small cigar-shaped dolma is the most familiar, but it is also the most time consuming. Some purists insist that hand-rolled versions taste best, but if you want to cut your dolma-rolling time in half, do as many Mediterranean cooks do and pick up a handy dolma-rolling machine. I loved the efficiency of this Dolmer brand roller, in which you place a grape leaf flat, push in some filling, and then slide a mechanism like a mandoline that pops out a perfectly rolled cigar.

To shape your own dolmas by hand, lay the grape leaf, bottom-side-up, with the tip of the leaf pointing towards you, on your work surface. Use scissors to snip any remaining stem from the leaf. Shape one tablespoon of filling into a loose, two-inch log and place it on the leaf at the base of the stem. Fold the left and then right sides of the leaf over the log, then fold the top down over the filling as well. Without pulling tightly, gently roll the log down towards yourself, forming a two-and-a-half–inch cigar-shaped roll. Place the dolma, flap-down, in your cooking vessel and repeat.

Any Broth Will Do

When it comes time to finish cooking your grape leaves, the general method is simple: Pack rolled dolmas snugly in a heavy pot or baking dish, cover with liquid and a bit of fat, and simmer until the filling is cooked and the leaves are tender. The most basic recipes get by on lightly salted water, olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon juice, but I like to mix it up to add a few more layers of flavor.

Sweet and tangy tamarind and dried apricots brighten up rich meat dolmas, or try adding a splash of dry white wine and a strip of orange zest to vegetarian recipes. Swap out the water for stock, adjusting the salt in your filling as needed, or use butter (or even browned butter!) in place of the olive oil. Just steer clear of dairy-based cooking liquids, which tend to curdle unattractively, and instead serve the finished dolmas with dollops of Greek yogurt or labneh on the side.

Now Make Your Own

As we near fresh grape leaf season, keep an eye out for vines in your area, and make friends with your green-thumbed neighbors. The plants typically produce more leaves than they need and gardeners often prune and discard the extras. As with all foraging, make sure your grape leaves haven’t been sprayed with anything inedible before cooking.

Once you have your pile of leaves, invite a bunch of people over for a dolmadaka/dolmades/sarma finger-food party along with some other mezze. They are lovely at any temperature, but I enjoy them most out in the garden with a glass of cool, young wine.

Beef Dolmas with Apricots and Tamarind

Spicy Lamb and Grape Leaf Tarts With Orzo and Feta

The post How to Make Your Own Dolmas (Stuffed Grape Leaves) for Perfect Mezze Plates appeared first on Saveur.

Warnings to travelers about to visit Syria, I learned when I started planning a trip there, are plentiful—everything from caveats regarding terrorists to rules on the proper etiquette towards women. One rule, for instance, was never to sit next to a Muslim woman traveling unaccompanied. But on my first Syrian bus trip, from Damascus, the capital, to the northern city of Aleppo, near the Turkish border, a woman wearing a Muslim head covering boarded the bus alone and sat next to me. Not only that, but she began to talk to me.

Lubaba, it turned out, was a recent graduate of the University of Damascus, and spoke flawless English—and over the course of our uncomfortable five-hour ride together, we became fast friends. We talked about everything, as we bumped along, from American slang to religion to our professional lives. And when I told her that I was a food writer, researching a book about the history of Mediterranean cuisine, her eyes lit up, and she insisted that I could not leave her country without tasting the most revered food of spring in Syria: the artichoke.

Grilled Artichokes

Syrian cooks, Lubaba told me, consider the artichoke—along with the eggplant—to be the noblest of vegetables. Perhaps this has something to do, she suggested, with the sense of reward it engenders after the labor involved in getting to its heart. And as she continued to describe one favorite artichoke dish after another, it became apparent to me that the Syrian approach to the vegetable was quite unlike any I had known. By the time we reached Aleppo, I was eager to taste the artichoke in as many native guises as possible, and I was delighted when Lubaba promised to introduce me to some of these dishes when we were both back in Damascus.

The popularity of the artichoke, Cynara scolymus, in the Middle East shouldn’t be all that surprising: It might very well have originated in the Arab world, though maybe not in Syria. For centuries, it was assumed that the vegetable was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans. But the word for artichoke in most European languages derives from the medieval Arabic word kharshūf—and according to material that I discovered in the inner sanctum of the Economic Botany Library at Harvard University, it seems more likely that the “artichoke” known in Greece and Rome was in fact its close relative, the cardoon. Arab agronomists in North Africa or Spain probably developed the artichoke as an improvement on the cardoon about a thousand years ago. While only the stalks of the cardoon are edible, the artichoke offers both its stalk and its delicate inflorescence—which has an edible receptacle (the “heart”) and comestible flesh at the base of its bracts (improperly called the “leaves”).

Back in Damascus, and having not yet heard from Lubaba, I placed myself in the capable hands of Mazen, a friend’s brother, who offered to introduce me to some unusual Syrian dishes. An interest in food is basic to Arab culture, and everyone I met in Syria—including Mazen, an aircraft maintenance supervisor—seemed to be a gourmet. He took me to fine restaurants and local hangouts alike, as well as into people’s homes, everywhere introducing me to surprising local specialties—like nukhācāt, a salad of poached lamb’s brains with lettuce and tomatoes; shinklīsh, a dish combining a strong, aged cheese made from sheep’s-milk yogurt with chopped tomatoes, parsley, and lemon juice; and sandūanāt, sheep’s stomach stuffed with finely diced lamb and spiced rice.

And, of course, there were artichokes—bayd bil-thūm wal-ardī shawkī, an appetizer dish of chopped artichoke hearts with eggs, roasted garlic, and yogurt sauce, and a pungent specialty from Aleppo called ardī shawkī bil-hāmid, in which artichoke hearts are bathed in a sweet and tart sauce made with pomegranate molasses.

One morning, Mazen took me on a tour of Damascus. We started in the bustling New City, where the rush of pedestrians was so furious that we were often pushed into the busy streets. More than once, we bumped, almost literally, into vendors marshaling their donkey carts through the crowds, each selling various seasonal foods—fresh almonds, fava beans, and the inevitable plump, round artichokes. Somehow, we finally made our way through the masses and into one of the entrances in the massive wall that encircles the Old City, a section of Damascus that has been continually inhabited for 4,000 years.

The Old City is a maze of souks, or markets. We walked along narrow streets, through the old, delightfully untouristy Sūq al-Hamīdiyya, and into the Sūq al-Buzūriyya, the medicinal-herb market, a collection of dank, dark, dusty holes-in-the-wall, their shelves lined to the ceilings with cans of dried plants, herbs, and powders of all kinds. Emerging from the shadows, we passed the luminous 1,290-year-old Ummayad Mosque, Damascus’s most awe-inspiring example of early Islamic architecture. The mosque, made of cool white stone, seems to radiate magnificence and serenity amid the grayness of the city. We descended Shāri’ Bāb Sharqī, referred to as the “Street Called Straight” in the Bible, and circled around to pass the 13th-century Madrasa al-Zāhiriyya, an impressive building that houses the Mausoleum of Baibars. We continued, passing various goldsmiths’ shops, mosques, and the 18th-century Azim Palace (built for an Ottoman governor of Damascus, and now a museum of arts and customs), until we reached the al-Az restaurant, an emporium of traditional Damascene cuisine, tucked away in a cramped alley overlooking the minarets of the Ummayad Mosque.

From the casual restaurant, decorated with colorful hanging cloths, Bedouin carpets, and cushions, we could hear the muezzins singing their call to prayer outside. Mazen ordered tarkhun—huge stalks of fresh tarragon, which we ate with flat bread while we waited for our appetizers. These turned out to be burak al-jubna, a mixture of spinach and jubna bayda (a plain, white cow’s-milk cheese) baked in very thin dough, and ardi shawki maqli bil-taratur, fried artichoke hearts served with a rich tahini-based sauce. For our main course, we ordered shish tawuq, marinated and grilled chicken, accompanied by ardi shawki wa-ful, a delicious dish of braised artichokes and fresh fava beans that positively smacked of spring. The meal, like the setting, was memorable.

Later in the week, Mazen invited me to the home of his aunt Muheeba, whose extended family joined in preparing a veritable feast to celebrate the occasion of my visit. Little nieces and nephews ran about and went wild with laughter every time I uttered my heavily accented Arabic. The adults at the party were intrigued by my line of work (food-writing as a profession doesn’t exist in the Arab world), and were eager to show me the best that their country has to offer. They served at least ten different dishes, including an elaborate ground lamb and veal casserole called zunud al-bint (“the girl’s forearms”), and a delicious pilaf made with young green wheat (called farik), bits of roasted lamb, fresh peas, and pine nuts, and served with sliced green tomatoes.

Knowing of my interest in artichokes, Muheeba herself prepared yakhnit al-ardi shawki, a simple artichoke and lamb stew whose flavor was an intricate, almost imperceptible mingling of rich meat, delicate artichoke hearts, and spices—cinnamon, allspice, pepper, and nutmeg. She also served her specialty, ardi shawki bil-lahm: hollowed-out artichoke hearts stuffed with ground lamb, pine nuts, onions, and mixed spices, and presented on a bed of fresh peas and diced carrots. After hours of feasting and talking and laughing, a huge platter of apples, oranges, baby cucumbers, and romaine lettuce leaves was set out—the perfect ending to such a lavish meal.

When Lubaba returned to Damascus, she called as promised, and invited me to lunch at the home of her aunt Maidda. I had heard about Maidda during our bus ride, and was eager to try the ardi shawki bil-bayd, artichokes with scrambled eggs, that Lubaba had described in such detail. Though the dining room was set for guests, Lubaba and I crowded into Maidda’s compact kitchen to watch her whip the artichokes into the frothy eggs. When the eggs took on a decidedly odd, grayish color, Maidda announced that they were done, and covered them with an abundance of chopped parsley. We took seats around the little kitchen table and tasted the fluffy eggs and meltingly soft artichoke hearts. The complexity of the simple dish, served with fried white cheese, rich, creamy yogurt, and flat bread, was remarkable.

I now have my own repertoire of Syrian artichoke recipes, which I look forward to making every spring. As I cook, and exotic smells fill my kitchen, I think back to that uncomfortable bus ride to Aleppo—and am thankful that Lubaba took it with me.

Ardi shawki maqli bil-taratur

The post The Heart of the Syrian Artichoke appeared first on Saveur.

It was early in the morning when I hopped on the ferry from the port town of Chios, Greece, and headed to Cesme, Turkey. I had driven my car the wrong way down one of the town’s many one-way streets, resulting in a face to face interaction with a policeman and the revelation (his, not mine) that I couldn’t reverse it back down the street under any significant pressure. I made it to the boat and was told by one of the passengers that the sea would be particularly rough that day, the perfect thing for a person susceptible to seasickness to hear.

Cesme looked a lot like Chios’ port town, which looks like most port towns in the Mediterranean: quiet, quaint, colorful, littered with signs catering to tourists. But I wasn’t staying in Cesme for long. I walked to the bus station, about 10 minutes from the port, and found the bus to Izmir. My plan was to eat my way through the city’s market neighborhood, Konak. I had a list of must-try street foods on my phone, and that was basically the extent of what I knew about where I was going and what I was going to eat.

The market district has much more than prepared food—if you need any housewares, rugs, leather products, spices, dried fruits, and birds—Konak is where you want to be. Below is a sampling of just some of the street food you can find there, a representative (though not exhaustive) sample of what you can eat on the street across Turkey. You can find stands selling simit and pide on side streets and busy city roads, and they’re often packed with locals who know the best food (and the cheapest) isn’t necessarily in a restaurant. And while some of these street foods are new, most of them have been part of Turkish culture for centuries. Because there’s so much to eat, the best piece of advice for finding street food in Izmir is to just let it happen. Follow every little alley to the end, try everything, and don’t freak out if the buses don’t drop you off where you thought they would.

Simit

You can find simit, sometimes called a Turkish bagel, pretty easily in parts of the US now, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try one in Izmir. These chewy bread circles are covered in sesame seeds and crunchy on the outside, and they’re the perfect breakfast food. Look for bright red carts with red and white striped awnings around the side. They shouldn’t be hard to find—I walked for three blocks and ran into four separate stands. These vendors sometimes sell sandwiches and other carby foods as well.

Midye Dolmasi

These were probably my favorite snack in Izmir: in my notes I refer to these several times as “the fucking best.” They’re mussels stuffed with salty, spicy rice, and you can find them right on the street. Either eat them right at the stand at chuck the shells in the trash, or order a bunch and grab a seat to enjoy them.

Sogus

Right after I downed my 12 stuffed mussels, I was running on a bit of a Turkish street food high, so I decided to ask the guy who had prepared the mussels if he knew where I should get söğüş. I pulled up a photo of it on my phone. “Söğüş?” He kind of yelled. He clearly thought I didn’t know what was in it, but some very quick research had already told me there’s brain involved. I nodded, and he laughed and led me down another small side street to a stand selling only söğüş.

The man behind the counter was chopping brain, tongue, and cheek, which he’d then mix up with some tomato, parsley, and onion, and wrap in a giant chewy pita. The guy who made it, as well as all the people seated at my table, kept checking in to see how I liked it. Order this spicy, delicious snack and get a side of serious street cred for free.

Balik Ekmek

If you find yourself by the water in Izmir or Cesme, you may come across little stands selling balık ekmek, Turkey’s popular fish sandwich. It literally just means “fish bread,” and that’s pretty much all it is: crispy grilled fish, a little seasoning, sometimes a lemon wedge, and a few slices of onion and some lettuce. It’s a cheap but fresh and tasty sandwich that is definitely worth seeking out.

Pide

Like simit, you can find pide just about anywhere. Think of it like extra-cheesy grilled pizza: a customizable set of toppings tucked into a canoe-shaped bread boat. Get it with any combination of vegetables and meat, and make sure to find one with an egg in the middle so you can dip the pide’s crisp edges into it.

Kumru

We’ve waxed poetic about kumru before, but it’s worth reiterating—if you’re in this part of Turkey, you should definitely reserve some stomach space for this sandwich. Cooks griddle kaseri cheese directly on the flattop, then plop it on top of a pile of sliced meats on toasted, buttered bread. It’s finished off with a beautiful fresh tomato slice.

Kumpir

What’s the most stuffed baked potato you’ve ever seen? Did it involve sour cream? Butter? Chives? If you’ve ever gotten a baked potato with all this on it and then thought, “this would be even better if I added beets and peas to it,” you have to try kumpir. There are so many toppings that can go onto this giant baked potato, and they sit in a case that looks a little like what you’d order gelato out of. Pile on olives, cheese, corn, pickles, tomatoes, cabbage, mushrooms, mayonnaise, ketchup—just about anything goes when it comes to kumpir.

The post 7 Amazing Turkish Street Foods to Stuff Your Face (Besides Kebabs) appeared first on Saveur.

While it’s totally possible to pull together a memorable feast in a bare-bones kitchen, multicourse meals are always easier to execute with advance planning and the right equipment.

Whether you’re preparing to cook your first Thanksgiving dinner or your 50th, take a full inventory of your kitchen tools. If any of these essentials are missing, save yourself some unnecessary stress by updating your arsenal.

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I know it’s annoying to invest a piece of kitchen equipment that gets used only once or twice a year, but consider the alternatives: flimsy disposable roasting pans can’t take stovetop heat, forcing you to forfeit all that beautiful fond (the solid gold of proper gravy-making); they buckle under the inevitable heft of a stuffed turkey and usually only survive one or two uses.

My own mom’s “easy-clean” non-stick roaster isn’t much better; it can’t be reliably used with its metal roasting rack, lest it end up sloughing bits of Teflon coating into the pan drippings (unacceptable!). So if you’re going to splurge on one tool for Thanksgiving, get yourself (or whoever is cooking this year) a good roasting pan. This one from Williams Sonoma is wide enough to accommodate an extended-family-sized bird and the low sloped sides allow for more even browning (and more crispy skin to go around).

Serving Platters to Go With Everything

If seasonally specific serving trays are cluttering your china cabinet, Marie Kondo the lot of them and get yourself one oval, white platter to go with everything. This pretty beaded option is formal enough for your holiday table and sturdy enough to be withstand years of family dinners and tipsy dish-washing.

Thirteen Chefs

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Properly carving a whole bird is a messy endeavor. Save your guests the butchering tutorial and, after presenting the turkey, take it back in the kitchen. Get it off the platter, onto a nice, big, cutting board, and carve into pieces.

This wide, plastic, restaurant-style board is easy to sanitize, reasonably priced, and has a deep juice groove to contain all the messy drippings.

Williams Sonoma

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…And since you won’t be butchering the turkey tableside, don’t fuss with a showy, overpriced carving set or one of those old school electrified monstrosities. This easy-to-clean and easy-to-sharpen carving set from Global holds a razor sharp edge; the thin, 8-inch blade is long enough for smooth slicing while still maneuvering nimbly around poultry bones. The textured handles prevent slipping when working with greasy cuts of meat, and the set is attractive enough to be seen by any guests who might have followed you and that turkey back into the kitchen.

Amazon

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Yes, you can absolutely use a spoon to painstakingly separate the turkey fat from the pan drippings. But someone invented a more efficient way of doing it a long time ago and it’s well worth the cost. Bite the bullet already, particularly with this model which subs out the pour spout (and the accompanying risk of spilling fat out the top) for an easy-release valve on the bottom of the cup. Trigger it on the handle, then let pan juices stream out the bottom.

Food52

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Classic, wide, genie-in-a-bottle looking gravy boats take up too much precious space on your dinner table and their elongated shape causes gravy to cool quickly to room temperature. This handsome, handmade version from our friends over at Food52 is more sensibly-shaped, keeping sauces warm for longer in a more compact space.

ThermoPro

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Those cheap-o, ready-to-eat indicators that come stuck into grocery store turkeys are a reliable indicator only that your turkey is overcooked to the point of sawdust. Do your nerves a favor and remove it before the bird goes in the oven. You will have much better results if you get yourself an inexpensive, oven-safe meat thermometer. This handy probe version can remain in the meat in an oven or grill while the digital readout remains out at room temperature.

Williams Sonoma

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A few matching, brightly-colored baking dishes can make your whole spread look intentional and Instagram-ready. These ceramic oven-to-table dishes come in an assortment of jewel-tones to brighten up even the coziest, autumn-brown side dishes.

Norpro

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Several years back, I entered an apple pie contest and set out, under the tutelage of my first chef, to make the best lattice-topped pie in town. I tested a bunch of crust recipes and every style of pie plate I could get my hands on. I was dead-set on having a pie that was juicy on the inside but evenly browned and caramelized on the bottom. Again and again, the only plates that gave me that coveted texture were those made of thin, chintzy metal—not the disposable foil versions, but rather the lightweight aluminum or stainless types you’d find in any grandma’s kitchen.

I came in third, though I’m proud to say my pie was the only lattice-top that placed that year. I also succeeded in making my pie exactly how I wanted it to be and that recipe has served me well ever since. Glass and ceramic can’t compare.

These days, I avoid cooking in aluminum, so I switched to this set of thin stainless pie plates. They work great for crispy, crunchy, bottom crusts, and they’re deep enough to accommodate an award-worthy amount of juicy filling.

The post All the Cooking Tools You Need to Make Thanksgiving Magic appeared first on Saveur.

There used to be a time when all people did with their Thanksgiving turkeys was roast them in a pan. Sure, there was the annual round of timorous self-questioning beforehand: Should I stuff the bird, and with what? Did I tie the legs last year or leave them untrussed? Should I brine it? How will I know when it’s done roasting?

Roasting turkey has its moments of doubt for sure, like how to treat a large-breasted bird versus a heritage one (the answer: rely on thermometers not clocks), and we’ve all suffered through the occasional turkey so overcooked that no amount of gravy could save it. But when done right, it can be a masterpiece of nostalgia and deliciousness. And I miss the simpler days, before all the fuss of spatchcocking and brining, when all you had to do on Thanksgiving was put a damned turkey in the oven.

In culinary school, we were taught the simple, universal principles of perfect roasting: shape the meat so that the parts get cooked as evenly as possible, get a nice brown crust on the outside using a targeted amount of high heat, and keep air evenly circulating all around the meat at all times. We didn’t rely on recipes—we took temperature (the sweet spot is pulling the meat out around 145° for most roasts) or checked the color of running juices in the thickest parts to determine doneness (for turkey, they should be relatively clear, not too pink). We learned to salt by instinct. And we basted the meat, well, if or when it looked like it needed to be basted. Point being: roasting is about instinct. If you trust yourself, there’s really not much that can go wrong.

Because even the best roast turkeys are usually still just pretty good, I’ve let my friends and family talk me into a thousand different turkey cooking methods. Probably like you, I’ve flipped through decades of magazine articles—and even written some myself—touting new turkey ideas and flavorings. I’ve survived novel-length family email chains, all seeking to answer the question “How should we do our turkey this year?”

One year, we confited the legs and roasted the breasts separately (probably my favorite of the experiments). More than once we’ve deep-fried our turkey in a vat of peanut oil in a gadget invented specifically for deep-frying turkeys. We’ve wet-brined in giant tubs. We’ve injected flavorings into our turkey with a syringe. I’ve roasted a bird partially upside down, and slow-grilled a turkey over indirect heat from coals. I’ve never had a turkey cooked underground, but I’m sure someone has, and that person would be glad to tell you all about how just okay it was. I’ve had smoked turkey. And a bird sous vide in parts. But never have I ever had a turkey that really blew me away.

Our Complete Guide to the Best Thanksgiving Recipes

That’s because turkey is just never going to be the king of meats. Even the blandest Butterballs versions have at least some gamey flavor, and even the plumpest don’t have quite enough fat to keep the disproportionate amounts of meat juicy or yield many decadent pickings beyond that bronzed, paper-thin shell of crispy skin (as good as it may be).

To me (and I’m not alone), simply salting and roasting is and always will be the easiest, most classic, and least absurd way to get crispy, deeply browned skin, and meat that’s not water-logged or so salty it tastes like it came from the ocean (read: wet-brined). So slap some salt on the skin, give it a day to dry off in the fridge, and then, guys, just put the damned turkey in the oven.

Here are my methods to a simple but iconic roasted bird:

Pre-Salt Generously

Even I have been guilty of calling this method “dry brining” before—mostly because that name makes salting a turkey sound like an adequate and valid defense against the die-hard wet briners out there, bless their patient souls. But, as brining has everything to do with soaking in salty liquid (which I think creates unnaturally spongy meat), we should really just call this step pre-salting.

One day before cooking, pat the fresh or fully defrosted bird dry with paper towels and salt and pepper it very well all over. Refrigerate it, uncovered and breast side up, for a full day, letting any excess moisture from the skin evaporate.

Add Fat if You Want To

Because turkey breast is especially lean, I like to rub softened fat beneath the skin just before roasting. It melts and gives the meat extra flavor, richness, and moisture. Duck fat is wonderful for this, and it fortifies the poultry flavors, but unsalted butter works well, too. You really don’t need to baste the meat with more fat as it cooks. A combination of low-heat and high-heat roasting helps render then crisp the skin.

Don’t Bother Trussing

Part of the blame for dry white meat turkey actually falls on the legs: Because they take longer to cook through, by the time they are done, the breast may be overcooked. The meat in the fold between the thigh and the breast can be some of the last meat to finish cooking when trussed. Trussing prevents air from circulating around and between the legs, which can cause them to take even longer to cook.

I don’t tuck the wings either, but if you’re cooking a massive bird (above 15 pounds), you may want to tent them part of the way through with foil to prevent the tips from burning.

Stuff—But Not With Stuffing

Especially if you’re not trussing the legs, adding some aromatics into the cavity of the bird seems to help slow the cooking process and prevent dried-out white meat. I fill mine with a combination of halved lemons and shallots, cut heads of garlic, and bushels of herbs. (If desired, after your turkey is done roasting, you can squeeze out the roasted garlic cloves and whisk them into your gravy for added flavoring.)

Heat From Low to High

For forever, I started my bird on high heat to kick-start the browning of the skin, then lowered it to roast slowly the remainder of the way. This works well enough. But the best crispy skin I’ve ever achieved came from starting off at low temperature (usually 350°), when the skin can more fully render onto the meat, and then finishing the turkey on higher heat (around 425°).

And Don’t Worry About Basting

Basting or brushing the bird with the juices and drippings from the pan presents several problems. For one, it distributes more moisture onto the top skin of the bird, preventing the outermost layer from getting crispy. But secondly, it slowly steals from the pan juices that can and should later become your gravy. In this particular recipe, you do not need to baste in order to achieve crispy bronze skin. But if you insist, baste with rendered duck fat or from a fresh cup of olive oil instead.

The post The Best Way to Roast a Thanksgiving Turkey is to Stop Worrying About It appeared first on Saveur.

There are any number of ways to signal to the world that you just fell off the turnip truck. You can wear overalls to church or eat pizza with a knife and fork. You could even admit that you like slow-cooked green beans.

Yet at the risk of sounding like a rube, I’ll go to bat for slow cooked green beans. I’m talking an hour and a half and maybe more, along with some onions and garlic and a little smoky side meat, simmering until they are soft in texture—maybe even mushy—and swimming in hearty pot liquor.

This approach flies in the face of today’s green bean orthodoxy. Three decades of French and French-educated chefs have indoctrinated us with the idea that beans should be crisp-tender, never soft. The method touted by our food cognoscenti is to boil them for just a few minutes, shock them in ice water to preserve their brilliant green color, then reheat them in a little butter so they are warmed through but still have a firm, snappy bite.

Such a preparation would seem bizarre to cooks in previous centuries. In The Kentucky Housewife (1839), Lettice Bryan instructed her readers to boil their green beans “slowly till very tender, which you may tell by taking one out and mashing it.” Mrs. S. R. Dull’s Southern Cooking, published in 1928, insists “snap beans require long, slow cooking, two to three hours.” (Yes, three hours!)

It wasn’t just a Southern thing. The 1927 edition of Fannie Farmer’s Boston Cooking School Cook Book directs, “cook in boiling water from one to three hours.” Up in Hyde Park, a CIA instructor just got a bad case of the vapors.

The conventional wisdom about green bean texture began to shift in the 1970s, and the practitioners of “nouvelle cuisine” had a big hand in it. French chefs like Roger Vergé and Paul Bocuse rejected elaborate recipes and heavy sauces, focusing instead on fresh ingredients prepared simply—and that often meant cooking green vegetables as little as possible.

These ideas influenced the “California Cuisine” of Alice Waters and Jeremiah Tower as well as the “New Southern Cuisine” that began developing in places like Charleston and Chapel Hill. The minimalist approach to veggies made its way to the home kitchen, too, spurred on by food writers enamored with all things French.

“Beans must never be overcooked,” an uncredited writer for the New York Times insisted in 1979, in a syndicated column that ran on food pages across the country. It sneered at old-style American beans “cooked for hours with a piece of fatback into a gray, greasy gob” and claimed with Francophilic certainty that “the green bean, like the potato, had to travel from the New World to the Old World and await the cooking skills of the French before it could come into its own.”

By the mid-1980s, green bean texture had become something of a cultural marker, especially in the South, where migration and suburbanization were changing how people ate. “Yuppies” in Atlanta and Charlotte, desperate to shed all traces of bumpkinism, turned their backs on barbecue and fried chicken and started eating quiche and drinking Perrier.

There was, of course, backlash from traditionalists. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution columnist Lewis Grizzard excoriated the fancy restaurants popping up around the city in the 1980s. They “serve their green beans raw and then they cook their tomatoes,” he complained. “This is an unholy aberration I cannot abide.”

But the firm-bean sophisticates won out, even in the South. And unlike quiche, crisp green beans had staying power.

“Green beans are at their best when tender, yet crisp with a bit of crunch,” food columnist Gay Starrak wrote in 1983, advising boiling them for 10 to 15 minutes. That window grew shorter each year. By the 1990s, it was common to see recipes calling for 4 to 10 minutes of cooking, and soon a 3-minute blanch was standard. It’s now routine to see pieces like this one from Epicurious, which declares, “most people live in fear of overcooking their vegetables” and invokes the terrifying image of “green beans with no more backbone than a piece of spaghetti.”

Now, I live in fear of many things, like bears and bees and Kidz Bop. But overcooking vegetables isn’t one of them. At least not any more. Like most people who learned to cook in the ‘90s, I came of age believing that green beans should have a snap to them, and I dutifully mastered the blanch-and-shock process.

But more recently I’ve started lowering the heat and letting them go, especially when I find myself with scraps of leftover country ham or come across a smoked ham hock at the butcher counter. I add lots of onions and garlic to the pot, too. There’s something magical about the way those sharp, strong flavors meld together and transform the crisp, vegetal pods into into something silky, dark, and delicious.

This is not to say that it’s wrong to make crisp green beans via the blanch-shock-revive method. When served alongside a perfectly seared piece of fish with roasted potatoes and a citrusy sauce, they add a pleasing snap of texture and a splash of bright color to the plate.

But green beans in such a context are little more than a soulless garnish. Cooked more lovingly—which is to say slowly, with plenty of aromatics and a little smoky meat—they are transformed into a rich, hearty delicacy. They may even steal your attention away from what is nominally the center of the plate, like those dry slices of turkey breast on Thanksgiving day.

So be brave this holiday cooking season. Turn the stove to low and let that pot of beans simmer for a good long time while you catch up with family and friends. The results are worth the wait.

The post In Defense of the Olive-Drab, Slow-Cooked String Bean appeared first on Saveur.