I'm Just Here for the Food_ Version 2.0 - Alton Brown [1]
That is unfortunate. Because until a cook (the noun, that is) comes to terms with the intricate tango of matter and energy that defines cooking, he or she will remain in a world of darkness and doubt.
Case in point: I recently dined at the home of a friend who must remain nameless lest I never get invited there again. The entrée featured the breast of a free-range chicken encased in a nutty, herby crust and drizzled with a citrus reduction that hinted at Gewürtztraminer. Despite the fact that half a dozen different flavors had been invited to the party, they lacked any unity or leadership and thus could not cover the fact that there was not one drop of moisture left in the meat. Were I a Fletcherite,1 I’d have been there all night.
When I asked my hostess to share her inspiration for the dish, she enthusiastically presented a glossy food magazine in which a page was devoted to a picture of the dish and half a paragraph to the recipe, which included everything short of freeze-dried yak essence. And yet when it came to the engine and wheels, the skimpy instructions simply said “salt to taste” and “cook 45 minutes or until done.” Fashionably salt-fearing and unable to recognize “done,” my hostess had followed her recipe straight to oblivion. This sad end could have been sidestepped if only she had tempered her blind recipe faith with a dose of Baron von Rumohr,2 who wrote that there are three elements the cook must learn to control: salt , water, and (above all) heat.
This book is the result of my own desire to “get” the basics; to really understand why a steak that tastes great when seared is gross when boiled. Or why broccoli is better blanched than steamed. Or why brining is just about the best thing you can do to pork.
I know there are those who would say “who cares? As long as I know how, why bother with why?” I can only offer that for me, until I deal with the why, I don’t really know the how . . . if you know what I mean.
This book is divided by cooking method rather than food type. That’s because when it comes to cooking, I think a mushroom has more in common with a steak than with vegetables. The recipes herein involve the application of heat to foods such as plants and animals. Foods that we ourselves manufacture—such as batters, custards, and doughs—are, alas, another book.
How to Read a Recipe
Before I had any actual cooking knowledge, I cooked from recipes. Unfortunately I treated them with the same lack of respect that I had for the instructions to countless model kits as a child. (Hey, I don’t need anybody telling me what the Seaview looks like. I know what it looks like. You just glue this here and this here and… and…) I read recipes like a nine-year-old boy tearing through the instructions to a Ravel 1:20 scale model of an Apache attack helicopter he got for his birthday. As a result, I ruined quite a bit of food. But today, I know a better way.
Sit down in a comfortable chair and read through the ingredients list item by item and ascertain whether or not the required ingredients are indeed in-house. Nothing’s more frustrating than putting together that peach pie only to find that you aren’t in possession of peaches.
Now go through the parts list and note specifics like chopped, diced, crushed, cooked, drained, canned, fresh, and so on. Missing such details can lead to doom. Take a cup of black beans, for instance. Are they dry, soaked, cooked, cooked and drained, canned, or canned and drained? When added to a dish, each will render a different result.
Remain seated and read through the procedure as if it were a bedtime story. Those of you with children know what I’m talking about. No matter how sure you are of the story—of its beginning, middle, and end—you cannot paraphrase, omit, improvise, or rush. It is your duty to