Tostones: Slice, Soak, Fry, Smash, Fry

As far as I can tell, there are a few helpful rules to follow when having company for dinner.  Salty pig parts rarely disappoint.  Dessert should be mandatory, for both hosts and guests.  And if you can fry something without making your companions feel as though everyone has entered the seventh circle of hell, you will be a champion.

Frying food is not easy.  It is violent.  Hot oil gurgles and bubbles and erratically catapults towards the stove, the walls, your eyes.  Always the eyes. 

I went through a phase in my twenties when I fried a lot of sad, white fish.  Tilapia was very cheap.  I was broke. Amazing what a saltwater soak, some Tabasco, and a double dip in flour could do. 

Though one time I served this fish camouflage with slightly raw insides to an old boyfriend’s family and everyone ate very quietly and politely while I melted into the carpet. Luckily, no one died.

The point is, I have the recipe written down somewhere in a splattered kitchen notebook.  It is worthy of company.  And I have not made it in over five years.  Because frying things—and I like to think I am not alone here—usually makes me feel like hell.

But this is not the case for all.  For instance, if you are a certain hot-blooded Puerto Rican, you might set down a plate of sexy fried things looking like you’ve just woken from a nap in a meadow.  Which is what happened when my friend Thais and her husband Dave invited me over for dinner a few months ago. 

Appropriate rules were followed.  They served a big, brilliant plate of bacon rice studded with peas and carrots and seasoned with culantro sofrito.  Collectively, dinner guests pillaged a quart of coconut ice cream.  And Thais taught me how to make tostones, and made it look effortless.

In truth, tostones really aren’t really a nefarious endeavor.  There is some oil splattering, to be sure, but no breading to deal with.  And the risk of involvement from the Centers for Disease Control is incredibly low.

They are made from green plantains, which are like starchy bananas.  Tossing them in oil makes them irrationally more redeemable than French fries—though just as addictive.  Essentially, you slice, soak, fry, smash, and fry again. 

And then you eat with a mayo or sour cream-based condiment of choice. Thais has childhood roots in mayo and ketchup.  I’ve fiddled with the addition of chili garlic sauce and lime.  Some minced fresh oregano would be lovely too, I’m sure.

Don’t let the sauce or the splatter deter you.  They can be made without too much difficulty.  You too can avoid the inferno.

Tostones

Ingredients:

• 1 large garlic clove, minced
• kosher salt
• 3 green plantains
• canola oil (enough to fill an inch or so up the sides of a pan at least 10 inches wide and 3 inches deep)
• coarse sea salt (kosher works in a pinch)

Instructions:

Prepare a large bowl of water (temperature does not really matter, just not too hot or cold).  Add in the garlic and a few pinches of kosher salt. 

Take one plantain and, with a sharp knife, slice the peel lengthwise, cutting into the peel but not the flesh.  Cut two more lengthwise slits at equal intervals so the peel is segmented in three places (this will make it easier to remove).  Wedge your thumb under between the peel and the flesh of the plantain and gently slide it down to remove each section of the peel.  Repeat with the remaining plantains.

Cut the plantains into ½ inch diagonal slices and toss them into the seasoned water; let sit for at least 10 minutes or up to an hour. 

When you are ready to fry, pour the oil into a large, deep pan; fill at least 1 inch deep and heat on medium high.  (The oil is ready when it sizzles when a piece of bread is dipped in.)

Set in as many slices as you can without overcrowding the pan.  Turn them over when their bottoms turn bright yellow and start to get crispy; repeat with the other side (this will take about 3 minutes per side). 

One fried on both sides, place the slices on a large board and repeat with the remaining slices. 

After the first frying, use the bottom of a sturdy glass to press down heavily to smash each slice. 

Dip the smashed slices in water, press a few bits of salt on one side, step back to avoid the splatter, and then fry the slices again on both sides until crispy and golden (1 to 2 minutes per side). 

Makes about 15 or 20 tostones

Notes:

1. This can be done with more than 3 plantains, but the amount listed is enough for 3 or 4 people to have as a snack.
2. For this you do not want the yellow, ripe plantains; they’ll be too sweet.
3. These are best the day they are made, but they can be warmed in 350 degree oven for 5 to 10 minutes.

Rosemary Focaccia, Built to Roam

It is 8:13 AM.  On the street below a man is hosing down the entryway to a shrine for Saint Agrippina, garnished with over forty red roses.  There has been an Italian feast here in Boston’s North End, waging a war of sweets, meats, and muddied acoustics outside my window for days. 

The best way to describe it is to call to mind a state fair. The Great New York State Fair is my reference point.  Except picture more teeth and truncated consonants and swap out the secular wine slushies and spiedies for tents filled with blessed arancini balls and cannoli shells.

The smell of things fried in oil wafting up to a bedroom window may sound charming.  It can be.  The sound of when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie while cooking dinner may sound romantic.  It can be. 

The resonance of a cover of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” at 10:15 PM when you are trying to sleep is neither charming, nor romantic.  Especially when it is not—in fact—the last dance of the evening.  Under the auspices of broken promises, the age of disco continues to rage for another half hour.

For most of July, I took things to the limit traveling up and down the northeastern coast to the Cape, Vermont, and Rhode Island.  Trampling across beaches, up mountains, and settling on green grass to listen to banjos and acoustic guitars.

I mention this because during these weekends away from the city I have felt stronger, often on less sleep, and more booze. I also found myself reflecting a good deal as, I think, traveling tends to nudge. There are things to help this process if you are willing to listen and open wide.

Recently, this has included a Texas gentleman who goes by the name Shakey Graves.  I saw him in Newport last weekend at the epic folk festival. His gritty, soulful lyrics are matched by his lone guitar and suitcase kick drum.  I have not felt this way about music since I was thirteen and discovering The Beatles for the first time. 

The man can sing.

So sit back and watch me go
Bored and lazy
Yeah, watch me go, just passin’ through
Follow me beyond the mountain
Yeah go howl at the ol’ big moon
Oh strip them clothes right from your body
Dress your skin in sticks and stones
Doesn’t matter where we’re headed oh
Yeah cause some of us were built
Yeah, well, some of us were built
Yeah, well you know that some of us
Oh we were built to roam

So there’s that. 

There has also been this here focaccia that has done its fair share of traveling.  To Barnstable County accompanying pan-fried fish and a tomato casserole. 

To Newport alongside smashed avocado and six-minute eggs. 

To a motor lodge with cheese from a farm in Vermont with rosé drank from Styrofoam cups. To my beloved wineshop on Hanover Street because those wonderful folks deserve good bread.

It goes most places, easily. With pockets of olive oil in its open crevices.  Seasoned with pins from a spindly rosemary plant I have had for a scant decade.  It is soft, and chewy, and incredibly simple.  

The recipe is worth holding tightly to and the focaccia slab is suitable to share with as many people as you can.

I am not spiritual in the sense of god, or saints, or shrines.  But I do believe in the power of an acoustic guitar and of things made of flour and of heart.  And for me, right now, that is enough to fill a soul full.

Rosemary Focaccia

Adapted from The Wednesday Chef and Saltie: A Cookbook

Ingredients:

• 6¼ cups (915 grams) all-purpose flour, sifted
• 2 scant tbsp kosher salt
• 1 tsp instant yeast
• 3½ cups warm water (a little warmer than room temperature)
• ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil, plus more for the pan and to drizzle overtop
• pinch coarse sea salt
• pinch red pepper flakes
• 2 to 3 tsp minced fresh rosemary

Instructions:

the day before

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and yeast. Add the warm water and stir until all the flour is incorporated and a sticky dough forms.  In a 6-quart container (the bowl of most Kitchen Aids will do) pour in ¼ cup olive oil.

Pour the dough on top of the olive oil and scoop a little oil that pools at the sides of the bowl over top. (It will look like you’ve made a terrible mistake here, the dough will be very loose, almost like porridge.)

Cover with plastic wrap and place in the fridge for at least 8 hours and up to 2 days (I average about 24 hours).  During this time, the dough will rise and puff up.

the day of

When ready to bake, take the dough from the fridge, oil a baking sheet (about 18 x 13), and pour the dough onto your prepared pan.  Using your hands, spread the dough gently out to the corners, or as close as you can get it. 

Let the dough rise until it roughly doubles in volume (about 1 hour).  It is ready when it is puffed up and spread out. 

Meanwhile, in a small bowl combine a tablespoon or two of olive oil with a pinch of red pepper and salt, plus the rosemary. 

Set the oven to 450 degrees. 

Make a number of indentations in the puffed dough with your fingers, like you are playing the piano.  Give the olive oil mixture a quick stir and drizzle it evenly over the top of the focaccia, allowing it to pool in the dimples created.

Bake for about 30 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through, until the top turns golden brown. Let cool on a wire rack and then cut into slices in the pan.

Makes enough for 12 sandwiches (or 24 narrow strips for snacking)

Notes:

1. Start this recipe a day ahead.  This may seem annoying, but it is not a lot of work, and no kneading.
2. The focaccia will last up to 2 days sealed in a plastic bag on the countertop.  If you won’t use all of it right away, it freezes brilliantly.  (If you want it for sandwiches, slice before freezing.)
3. See Shakey sing "Built to Roam."
    

Parsley Cake with Crème Fraîche and Honey, It's Vermont After All

I was in Waitsfield, Vermont last weekend.  Nowhere is vacation mode more apparent than a town that seems to propel itself on beer, bikes, and National Geographic hair.  The town is perpetually breezy.  I get the feeling July is alive and well there all year round.

I visited a vineyard and sat in the grass with friends, and a baby, and listened to a local band named the Grift, and drank wine in jam jars. We ate Israeli couscous salad and shards of sharp cheese and rolled up cured meats surrounded by grape vines.

In the morning, we went to the farmers’ market where we had blackberry Danish and looked at sheepskin rugs touting local origins and tasted beer jelly made from Vermont brew. We bought red-skinned potatoes and haricot vert and dill, all of which found entry into a potato salad drenched with local crème fraîche later that evening.

We sampled smoked chèvre and an aged ash cheese called Black Madonna from the Sage Farm Goat Dairylady, and I felt closer to France than I have in a long time.  Then we went on a search for Heady Topper, for which there was none in the entire state.  Apparently, we were too laidback in our acquisition efforts—even compared to native Vermonters, who all seem to know that the beer delivery happens on Monday and must set their watches accordingly. 

So we hiked. Then went on a bar crawl for three. Chatted with the owner of Localfolk Smokehouse about his recent perfection of a spicy barbeque sauce recipe.  And finally found some loosies of Heady Topper at the bar of Hostel Tevere, run by a husband and wife team.  All the while in the company of a three-month-old possessing a very chill Vermont-y attitude, until the witching hour of 7 pm.

That evening I saw fireflies after dinner, and felt closer to childhood than I have in a long time.  And in the morning we had parsley cake for breakfast.

Which I will file away as the unofficial dessert of the Green Mountain State.  It is fern-colored and pleasantly grassy, if you will permit me to use such a ridiculous phrase as a selling point. It carries laidback sweetness, which allows the herbs to become softened by dairy. 

For this role, I recommend crème fraîche spiked with honey.  Old-fashioned vanilla ice cream would work equally as well, though less traditional as a breakfast option.  As one friend put it, the sweetened fraîche tasted of “warm ice cream.”  So there’s that, too.

I interpreted this positively, since he had multiple servings throughout the weekend.  No judgment on either account. It’s Vermont, after all.

The recipe is from a restaurant in Brooklyn called Roberta’s with a cult following.  In full disclosure: I haven’t been, though it wields an inspirational vibe and appears to be the kind of joint that can make pizza and parsley infinitely interesting, and unexpected.

Kind of like beer in jelly. Babies in bars.  And parsley in cake.

Parsley Cake with Crème Fraîche and Honey

Adapted from Food52 and Roberta’s Cookbook

Ingredients:

• 130 grams (about 3½ tightly-packed cups) parsley leaves (stems removed)
• 50 grams (about 1½ tightly-packed cups) mint leaves (stems removed)
• 165 grams (¾ cup) extra virgin olive oil
• 290 grams (2 cups plus 1 tbsp) flour
• 15 grams (1 tbsp plus 2 tsp) cornstarch
• 7 grams (2¼ tsp) kosher salt
• 8 grams (1½ tsp) baking powder
• 4 large eggs, room temperature
• 330 grams (1 2/3 cups) sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• zest of 1 lime
• zest of 1 lemon
• serve with
• crème fraîche (sweeten with vanilla bean and honey or maple syrup, if desired)
• honey (to drizzle on top)

Instructions:

In a food processor or blender, place 1/3 of the herbs and process until well crushed and broken down.  Add the remaining herbs in one or two more additions, depending on the size of your machine, and puree, stopping occasionally to stir the herbs and scrape them off the sides and toward the blade.

When the herbs are fairly well pulverized, stream in half the olive oil and pulse until combined.  

Add remaining oil and blend for 10 seconds longer.  Scrape into a bowl and refrigerate until ready to use.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cornstarch, salt, and baking powder; set aside.

In a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, whip the eggs for 30 seconds; add the sugar and mix on high speed until light yellow and fluffy (about 3 minutes).  On low, slowly stream in the herb mixture and mix until combined.

With the machine on low, add the flour mixture a third at a time (do this quickly and don’t allow the flour to incorporate in before adding the next bit—this shouldn’t take more than 10 or 15 seconds).  Stop the mixer and add the vanilla and zest and stir with a rubber spatula until just combined (the flour should be fully incorporated but take care not to overmix). Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 6 and up to 24 hours.

When you are ready to bake, set the oven to 340 degrees.  Butter a loaf pan (I used two narrow ones—10 x 3½ and 7 x 3½), line with parchment paper (with the paper hanging over the sides), and then butter the parchment.  Pour in the batter and smooth with a spatula.

Bake for about 40 to 50 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean when inserted into the center of the cake. (The reference recipe has the cake bake for only 15 to 20 minutes, but they use a sheet pan which makes for a shallower cake and a faster cooking time; watch closely depending on your baking receptacle.)

Let cool in the pan.  Serve with a dollop of crème fraîche and a drizzle of honey.

Makes enough for about 12 humans

Notes:

1. Any leftovers can be stored in the freezer.
2. Note the batter hangs in the fridge for a least 6 hours before baking.