Author: Stephanie March

As with others who work in the food business, I—and especially my chef husband—have had new friends express their reservations about cooking for us. (Usually this comes out over a few glasses of wine at our house.) But in truth, the only real differences between a home cook and a food pro are time and tricks. Sadly, most of us have less and less time to wade through an ever-expanding battery of culinary advice and implements, let alone master the tricks that are most helpful.

I’m lucky enough to live with an impatient know-it-all who points out when I am wasting my time. Through him and all my own experiences in commercial kitchens I have learned that there are a few things that can go a long ways toward transforming the way you cook. One is to develop “asbestos fingers” so that you can pluck a piece of chicken from a sauté pan at a moment’s notice to check for doneness. Another is tongs. They are a seamless extension of a good cook’s hands (especially one who hasn’t developed asbestos fingers yet). But the best and most important trick of them all is to master the essential art of mise en place.

Literally translated to “put in place,” the French term mise en place (rhymes with “peas on moss”) is used in kitchens throughout the world. Basically, it refers to the preparation of a dish before one cooks it: Assembling the necessary tools and ingredients, chopping and prepping, and pre-heating the oven all count as mise en place.

I used to think I was pretty slick as a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants cook. If a recipe captured my interest, I’d start cooking. Maybe halfway through the process I’d notice that the butter was supposed to be at room temperature (so I might nuke it, then end up melting it), or that I needed cream but only had skim milk (no one would know, right?), or that the dish required three hours in the oven (and guests were expected in one). Consider what a restaurant kitchen has to accomplish. Even if only a hundred people come for dinner, that’s probably about three hundred plates that come off the line. Can you imagine throwing a dinner party and assembling three hundred plates as a seat-of-the-pants cook? Bombs away.

That’s why one of the keys to success for a pro is mise en place. Everything in its place. While you’re driving to work in the morning, pondering where you might go for dinner, cooks all over town are chopping tomatoes, cleaning squid, and making stock—all so that when you place your order that evening, your line cook has his world at his fingertips. In order to be prepared for whatever the chef commands, the good line cook must have a near-blind faith that minced onions will be on his left and finely grated parmigiano reggiano in the cooler by his knees. That is what ensures that the chaos of a restaurant kitchen can be finely orchestrated, instead of evolving into disaster. Obviously, this is crucial for speedy cooks turning out food in high volumes, but who among us throws dinner parties for three hundred?

The real secret is that mise en place, more than a trick, is practically a way of life. It’s a concept that demands you show up with your head in the game. It means full attention and focus, respect for yourself as a cook, for your time spent making something that is well crafted, and for those who will eat it. Realizing the mise en place ideal means envisioning the entire production of a dish (or menu) with each element necessary for a beautiful, delicious result.

In my pre-mise en place days, I thought creativity meant spontaneity, that improvisation had a higher value than skill and technique. I could blame the media for glamorizing chefs as artists and producing cooking shows that promise perfection in thirty minutes, but I think it was probably more a combination of ego and laziness. Mise en place taught me to balance creativity with production.

Sundays are my favorite cooking day. Older kids are mired in homework, critical husband is mired in the couch, toddler is content to roll tomatoes across the counter. I am free to work on dinner, all day. My mise en place begins with looking out the window: Is it a soup day? A roast day? With a dish selected, a survey of the fridge and pantry usually means a quick shopping trip. Once I have all my ingredients, I begin prepping them. This has become my favorite task. While chopping an onion, I focus on how I hold my knife, how the angle of the blade yields a cleaner slice, how uniformly I can make each piece. The meditative nature of this simple task has helped me understand not only why technique is important, but how food yields to different techniques. Which has led me to a better understanding of food.

After prepping, my kitchen is populated with small dishes heaped with brightly colored, fragrant ingredients. By the time people show up for Sunday supper and I begin assembling and throwing things into the flame, what may seem like the beginning of a dish is actually the end. What I serve forth, be it success or failure, has undoubtedly taught me something. I’m still working on the asbestos fingers, though.

Chorizo Tapas

2 T. olive oil
1 c. chopped yellow onion
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 tsp. paprika
1 c. hard cider
2 bay leaves, broken in half
1 lb. Spanish chorizo, cut diagonally,
into 3⁄4 -inch pieces
1⁄4 c. sun-dried tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1⁄4 c. chopped fresh parsley

Heat oil in a sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add onions and garlic; sauté about 5 minutes, add paprika and cook about 1 minute more. Add cider and bay leaves; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for a few minutes. Add chorizo and sun-dried tomatoes; let simmer for 3 minutes. Remove bay leaves, toss in parsley. Serve in shallow bowl with crusty bread for dipping.

The average home cook, it turns out, has only about a dozen rotating specialties in his or her repertoire. Pot roast, meatloaf, spaghetti, you know the drill. This type of déjà vu dining becomes especially depressing in March. While the lucky few fly away to warmer climes and snack on fresh tropical fruit, the rest of us feel sentenced to a state of not-yet-spring, in which we’d rather eat a travel brochure than another baked chicken. Seeking out the fresh and new may seem daunting, especially as you lie on the sofa with the television clicker on your belly, but there is hope—inside the Asian markets scattered throughout the Twin Cities.

Asian markets offer glimpses into other worlds, right when you need them most. For those who shop at them regularly, this is hardly a revelation. But if you are like I once was (hugely aware of my tendency to stammer when I don’t know how to ask for something, and frightened to death of being offensive), just stepping through their doors can seem daunting. It turns out that all it takes to get over yourself is one trip to Shuang Hur or Duc Loi. You’ll be mesmerized by the tightly packed shelves of interesting ingredients and overwhelmed by the hospitality of the people who work there. In an effort to reveal the delights of these and other local Asian markets, I undertook a whirlwind shopping spree with friend and food expert JD Fratzke, the head chef at Muffaletta Café in St. Paul.

One of the best things about Asian markets is the availability of fresh and unusual herbs and leaves. You’ll find, likely near the vegetables, generous bunches of herbs that are less expensive than the plastic-boxed sprigs at the average grocery. Some of the most common are garlic chives (gow choy), which have a grassy top and pungent smell, and sweet Asian basil (bai horapha), with its slight anise flavor. More exciting are the leaves—la-lot leaves, kaffir lime leaves, and sword-shaped pandan leaves—which can be used to wrap fish and meats while they steam.

Oddly shaped roots are also plentiful. JD proved once and for all that beauty lies within when he snapped open a squat, dirt-covered water chestnut root to reveal its perfectly creamy white inner flesh. The basics include taro root, a starchy tuber that acts like a potato but with a slightly sweeter flavor; spicy galangal, a member of the ginger family commonly used in Thai cuisine; and jicama, tumeric, ginger, and lotus roots. A tip from JD: If you’re looking for bamboo shoots, go easy on yourself and buy the ones that have already been peeled and rinsed.

Enthralling, but confusing, are the many varieties of leafy greens. Of course there’ll be bok choy on hand, but why not try gai larn (Chinese broccoli) instead? The stems make a vibrant side dish, chopped and flash boiled in salted water. Choy sum is a flowering cabbage often crowned with little yellow buds; both the leaves and stems can be thrown into a stir-fry. Water spinach (kangkung), with its long, narrow leaves, is best wilted in olive oil with a bit of garlic.

The meat cases in Asian markets are packed with the usual cuts of beef and pork, alongside more unusual offerings like pigs’ feet and snouts, beef stomachs, and what JD calls the Asian movie snack: chicken feet. Fish can be found frozen and whole or sliced and marinated in a traditional spicy chili paste. Many markets offer cooked meats like HOFO duck (head on feet on), or barbecued hog. Both make for very easy meals.

One of the best treasure troves of all is the frozen foods section. Surprises from the far reaches of the globe can be found behind the glass doors: bags of pond snails, packets of air-dried fish, cases of quail eggs, boxes of Chinese sausages. Great deals can be had on bags of frozen mussels, scallops, shrimp, and other seafood. JD laughed aloud when he saw the same brand of frozen shrimp sold to his restaurant sitting on a shelf for markedly less. The big winner for me is the variety of dim sum treats. It’s so very nice not to have to leave home for a steamy breakfast of bao buns.

Of course, the basics would only get you so far without the aisles and aisles of vinegars, sauces, noodles, rice papers, spices, canned lychees, and dried mushrooms. The selection of soy sauces alone can be exhilarating. JD is on the constant lookout for an exotic white soy sauce a fellow chef once lent him. The hunt is half the thrill. On one of our trips I found fine French butter, small production Taiwanese honey, and a can of bubblegum-flavored jackfruit.

Strategywise, JD recommends starting with a recipe and a list of ingredients. And never be afraid to ask questions, he says. While we stood, obviously confused, in front of a meat case, a sweet older Asian man motioned in a gesture of aid. After a few minutes of pointing and a mix of odd linguistics on all our parts, we at last learned via pantomime that the gelatinous mass we’d been eyeing was beef stomach. We all smiled and nodded, feeling lucky to be in Minnesota. Even in March.

United Noodles 2015 E. 24th St., Minneapolis, 612-721-6677

Shuang Hur 654 University Ave., St. Paul,

651-251-2196; 2710 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis, 612-872-8606

Duc Loi 2429 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis,

612-870-8684

M&A Food Store 721 Jackson St., St. Paul,

651-310-0109

It’s hard to admit, but my real first encounter with escargot was at Bunny’s Bar and Grill in St. Louis Park, with a flock of hospitality bats. Some of my fellow bartenders thought it would be funny to order the strange appetizer—what was escargot Bourguignon doing there alongside nachos?—and someone else thought it would be even funnier to drop one in my mouth without telling me what it was. Once I understood that I was eating snails, I could no longer understand why this definitive dish in the cuisine of cuisines was so maligned. In truth, my initial taste of these slimy creatures was an odd sort of awakening. The earthy, buttery softness of this accidental escargot led me to oysters and sushi and other culinary adventures that might have been postponed for who knows how long.

Piles of shells excavated from archeological digs across Europe indicate that snails have been enjoyed as a food by a number of ancient peoples. The Romans cultivated special vineyards where their snails could feed. By the sixteenth century, dining on snails was so fashionable that the Catholic Church classified them (along with frogs and turtles in France) as “fish” and they were therefore allowed on meatless days. But it wasn’t until the mid-1800s, when Alsatian-run brasseries proliferated in Paris, that escargot became a defining dish of French culture. Today the French consume some forty thousand metric tons of escargot each year, more than the country can produce. Just last year, the Burgundy Snail Festival was saved by the importation of Polish snails to handle the demand (to the delight and chagrin of the French). In fact, heliciculture, or snail farming, is becoming a popular economic solution for Eastern European countries as demands across the globe increase.

Gastropod mollusks, snails occupy one of the largest classes of animals and can be found all over the planet in both water and land environments. Gastronomically, the most popular are Helix aspera (or petit-gris), the common garden snail, and Helix pomatia, the famed Burgundy snail. Spending their lazy days grazing on wild herbs and vineyard plants, wild Burgundy snails are not as widespread as they once were, due to land development and farming practices. Meanwhile, the garden snail is detested by green thumbs because of its insatiable appetite for plant matter and its prolific breeding ability. (It helps that most snails are hermaphrodites, and toggle back and forth between male and female.) Indeed, it must be hard to appreciate critters on your table that you curse in your garden. Other haters are usually people who have, shall we say, “textural issues” with foods. Just thinking of the slimy, gelatinous nature of a raw snail is enough to set off their gag reflex. And yet many of these people would happily wolf down a lobster, the cockroach of the sea, which is actually similar in texture to a cooked snail.

The Slow Food organization, those champions of fresh and independently produced food, and of the meaningful and lengthy enjoyment of a meal, uses the snail as its logo. Puns aside, cooking fresh wild snails is a slow and laborious undertaking. Although gardeners may be inspired to boil up their nemesis as a tasty revenge, caution should be heeded as snails, more so than most animals, are what they eat—including pesticides and plant life that may be poisonous to humans. Therefore, preparing snails for consumption involves holding them in an untreated wood box while they fast for three to four days as a detoxifying process. It also may include burying them alive in rock salt to draw out harmful toxins, or boiling them at length while removing the frothy scum that gathers on the surface of the cooking water. Not surprisingly, canned snails are a popular alternative to the home-cooked variety; many brands use age-old French preparations and are becoming more readily available in the U.S. through gourmet websites.

Most of us, however, think of escargot as de rigueur on the menu at any traditional French restaurant. At Vincent in Minneapolis, escargot is prepared in the classic Burgundy style, with garlic, shallots, and butter; when perfectly cooked in this way, it is amazingly soft and delicate—like a divine portobello. (You will know the overcooked snail when you meet it: Chewy and rubbery, they lose all magic.) For a departure from the Gallic, venture to Solera for a warm tapas of snails with mojo verde.

While escargot may seem hopelessly retro, young chefs are rediscovering the dish. Over the last year, restaurants across the country featured such creations as escargot-stuffed figs, escargot with truffled parsnip puree and artichokes, escargot parfait with potato puree, and parsley pesto-dotted escargot pizzas. Escargot on the menu gives a restaurant a certain pedigree, since most everyone has heard of escargot, and many consider it a luxury item, whether they enjoy it or not. So perhaps these chefs are at the forefront of a new international trend, and soon enough, escargot will be as popular as steak frites.

 

Escargot Pasta

6 to 8 ounces linguine pasta

3 tablespoons butter

1 10-ounce can artichoke hearts,

drained and sliced

1⁄2 cup quartered mushrooms

(such as baby portobello or porcini)

1 7- or 8-ounce can escargot, drained

2 to 3 cloves garlic, chopped

1 teaspoon chopped fresh sage

1 teaspoon chopped fresh parsley

1⁄2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano cheese

Cook pasta in water until al dente.

While pasta is cooking, melt butter in large sauté pan over medium heat. Add garlic and sauté until golden. Add mushrooms and artichokes and cook until mushrooms have softened and browned.

Stir in escargot, sage, and parsley, cooking until just warmed. (Don’t overcook snails or they will be tough.) Remove from heat.

Toss cooked pasta with half of cheese and place in serving bowl (or on plates) and top with escargot mixture. Sprinkle with remaining cheese and serve. Makes two large portions.