Salted_ A Manifesto on the World's Most Essential Mineral, With Recipes - Mark Bitterman [99]
Nothing could be simpler or more potent than sprinkling salt on a sliver of avocado or a just-shucked oyster. Part of the sensation comes from the texture of crunchy crystal against yielding ingredients. Part comes from the timeless minerality of the sea playing upon the fleeting flavors of the flesh. But the overwhelming power of salting uncooked food comes from salt’s chemical and physical effect on the palate, the chain reaction of ionic violence that sends cells bursting and juices rushing.
UNSALTED BREAD WITH UNSALTED BUTTER AND SALT
MAKES ONE 1½-POUND LOAF; SERVES 12
Salt that is everywhere is nowhere. Burying food in layers of salted homogeneity gives you nothing so much as a lot of salt. Yes, salt can be used to subjugate other flavors, bending them to an evil imperial will, enslaving them to the offensive goal of not offending anyone. The dark lords of homogenous salting hold cocktail parties where they try to keep everybody in the usual safe conversational ruts—children, sprinkler systems, geopolitics—while you, a rebel with your feathered hairdo or cinnamon buns attached to the sides of your head, try to bring light, freedom, and individual expression to the sensory galaxy. Allow your ingredients to converse, each reflecting upon what it has to say before sharing with the others. Heavily salted breads and presalted butter have possibly done more than any other two foods to reduce the net amount of mirth and pleasure experienced on earth. Unsalt them, and then set them free with your salt. A small amount of salt can be added to round out the bread’s toasty flavors without detracting from the salt’s romp through fields of buttered grain.
2 cups bread flour, plus more for sprinkling
½ cup rye flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
½ teaspoon instant yeast
1 three-finger pinch of fine traditional salt (optional)
¼ pound good, fresh unsalted butter, preferably Irish or locally made, slightly softened
Small pile of sel gris, preferably a mineral French sel gris such as sel gris de l’Ile de Noirmoutier
Combine the flours, yeast, and salt in a large bowl. Add 1⅝ cups of water and stir until blended; the dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap and let rest for 12 to 18 hours at room temperature. It is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured board, flour the top, and fold the dough over itself once or twice. Cover with plastic and let rest for 15 minutes.
Using just enough flour to keep the dough from sticking to your hands, quickly shape the dough into a ball. Place a flat-weave (not terry) kitchen towel on a sheet pan and coat the towel with flour. Put the dough, seam side down, on the towel. Sprinkle generously with more flour and cover with another towel. Let rise for 2 hours, until the dough does not readily spring back when poked with a finger.
At least 45 minutes before the dough is done rising, put a 6-to 8-quart covered Dutch oven (plain or enameled cast iron) in the oven and preheat the oven to 450°F.
When the dough has risen, remove the top towel. Slide your hand under the bottom towel and gently flip the dough into the hot Dutch oven, seam side up. Shake the Dutch oven to position the dough in the center. Cover and bake for 35 minutes. Uncover and bake for about 10 minutes more, until the top is very crusty. Let cool on a rack.
To serve, cut the bread into thick slices and serve with the butter and a small pile of sel gris.
STEAK TARTARE WITH HALEN MÔN
SERVES 2
With a feast of raw meat, the only things separating a gritty fifth-century encampment at the foothills of the Altai Mountains in Kazakhstan and a bistro in Paris, Buenos Aires, New York, or Tokyo are the trimmings. In the modern case, these might involve a glowing egg yolk cradled in a caldera of flesh, slivers of oily anchovy, the pickled plumpness