Classic from the heart - Ontbijtkoek

Ontbijtkoek

First published Canberra Times 13 July 2011

Imprisoned at home and a captive audience after recent surgery, I resort to recent episodes of the current Masterchef series for company. This phenomenon seems to be consuming all in its path, as it heaves the victorious temporarily into the limelight and condemns and literally casts out its losers. Is it my imagination, or have the gladiator-type theatrics been ratcheted up a few notches for this series?

Usually a sucker for shows that promote real food, diversity and development of our food culture, I find the reality TV format mixed with food a frustrating combination. I could blame my post operative pain for the sudden sensitivity of my cliché metre, but I suspect it was the surges of passion, tears and bags of determination that have become palpable in the Masterchef kitchen. I believe they may have exceeded the legal limit of how many times you can cook from the heart. Bring back those galloping gourmets, Bernard King and Peter Russell Clarke.

This reference to cooking from the heart is a curious thing. Is it overdone syrupy sentimentalism designed for uncritical TV audiences, or an authentic principle on which to base your approach to cooking? After self-reflection into my own cooking philosophy, I can only conclude that I am drawn to food I like, and that is inextricably linked to childhood, family and identity. I face the uncomfortable realisation that what I cook is quite a personal thing, and it’s just possible, I too cook from the heart. I’m now officially part of the cliché.

Take for example, the Dutch spice cake, Ontbijtkoek (breakfast cake). Just one waft of this cake triggers huge childhood memories for me because it was such an integral part of my growing up. This cake was everywhere for us: at breakfast, in our school lunchboxes and there was always a fresh one baking in the oven. Our household was not complete without an Ontbijtkoek in the cupboard.

Ontbijtkoek is available all over Holland, from the baker’s shop to the butcher’s and dates back to the 17^th century when the Netherlands dominated world trade through its Dutch East Indies fleet. Cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg were craved by all of Europe and literally worth their weight in gold. It’s no coincidence that these are the spices that give Ontbijtkoek its unique flavour.

Every migrant family has its own story of cultural gains and losses, but I am grateful that my family chose to retain some of their traditions to pass on to my generation. Cooking food that was familiar to them would have provided some comfort for the homesickness they must have felt when arriving in Australia as migrants in the 1950s. It was probably not a conscious process, but perhaps a result of the social and linguistic isolation they experienced.

I have played with this recipe numerous times, changing the ratios of liquid to solids and varying cooking times. The cake mix is quite stiff, and the final result is firm in texture and can be sliced and toasted like bread. This recipe is usually baked as a whole cake, although I successfully baked this one in little Kugelhof moulds. Alternatively, you could use any muffin or patty tins. If you choose to bake it as a whole cake, increase the cooking time to about an hour at 180C.   

Departing from tradition, I also added a sugary cinnamon coating on these that gives a donut-like flavour, but they’re just as good slathered with pure, creamy butter. A drizzle of melted dark chocolate over the top of the cake gives it a distinctive German Christmas flavour.

Keeping time varies, out of the fridge it keeps about 2 weeks. It improves with age, and tradition says that it should be kept in a container with a slice of bread to preserve its freshness. Makes 10 individual cakes or one loaf.

Cake

2 cups self raising flour

½ cup dark brown sugar

⅓ cup golden syrup

1 cup milk

1 tsp ground cloves

1 tsp ground Dutch cinnamon

1 tsp ground ginger

½ tsp grated nutmeg

pinch of salt

Topping (optional)

1 tsp ground Dutch cinnamon

4 tbsp caster sugar

5 tbsp melted unsalted butter

Preheat oven to 180C for loaf, for individual cakes bake at 150C. Combine all cake mixture ingredients in a large mixing bowl and mix to a smooth paste. It should fall in a ribbon from the spoon. Grease a 23cm x 10cm loaf tin, or individual cake moulds. Fill with the cake mix and slam on the bench top to remove bubbles.  Bake loaf tin for approximately one hour or individual cakes for 25 minutes, insert a skewer to come out clean to check if they are cooked.

Topping for small cakes

While cakes are still warm brush lightly with melted butter and roll twice in combined cinnamon and sugar.  

Pot au feu - Comfort in the madness

First published Canberra Times Wednesday 6 July 2011.

With our Alsatian adventure over, and a gruelling but uneventful flight behind us, we are relieved to be aboard our little plane at Sydney airport ready to make the final hop home to Canberra. I settle back into my seat, daydreaming of fresh baguette, pungent cheese and a succulent duck breast bought from our local boulangerie, fromagerie and boucherie. Sadly, when we get home, we will make do with the bread, cheese and probably even the meat from the local supermarket, with a proper trip to the market later in the week. After our amazing food experience in France, it is now difficult to resume life as we once knew it.

Our exhausted relief is punctured by an announcement. “Apologies for the delay. There’s a problem with the plane’s navigation system”. Before we know it, we are all offloaded to await news on the repairs. After a couple of hours watching the TV screen as it cycles through news repeats between bouts of dozing, we are told that the plane is too broken and the flight is cancelled. All other flights are full and we need to make alternative travel arrangements. My patience has reached near shattering point, and I use my remaining reserves to hire a car to drive the final leg home. Exiting the airport carpark, a strange sense of déjà vu emerges, as we take off on the right-hand side of the road. Oops.

There are many myths about jet lag, and more cures than you can poke a stick at. My theory is that the older I get, the more I feel the extent of its impact and I rely more and more on the restorative powers of food. To assist our body-clocks to deal with this change and return to their home circadian rhythms, I make a soothing Pot-au-feu. (literally “pot of fire”). Somehow I get the feeling this will not be an easy transition and my rhythms will remain firmly glued to the warm days and the haute cuisine of France, strongly resisting the cold winter realities of Canberra. If the goodness of Pot-au-feu can’t massage them back into place, nothing can.

Throughout France, there are many regional versions of Pot-au-feu, including coastal and inland variations. The thing that remains constant is that the soup is always served in two parts; the broth served first and the boiled meats and vegetables served afterwards. 

The origins of this dish go back to medieval France where serfs and peasants, as a matter of survival, had to take what they produced in the fruitful times and turn it into food that could sustain them through the lean times of the year. This involved preserving and processing food to ensure it would last out the long, and often harsh European winters.

Imagine that your kitchen has an earthenware pot permanently simmering on the stove, filled with stock, meat and vegetables. This is replenished as it is used and the pot is only cleaned out in readiness for the meatless weeks of Lent. The stock is served as a first course, then the boiled meats and accompanying vegetables as the second course. The meat trimmings and leftovers are added back to the stockpot to be reused in other dishes, enriching the stock. This soup never tastes the same twice and ends up a genuine party in a pot. This was also where soup as a starter or entree made its entry into gastronomic history.

For recuperative purposes, I make a meatless Pot-au-feu, but with a base of home-made chicken stock. I use a mixture of fresh, seasonal vegetables, and include my new-found addiction acquired in France - broad beans. They are a bit of work to prepare, as they need to be blanched to remove the outer skin, but well worth the effort for their beautiful, nutty flavour and bright green colour. Broad beans are a winter vegetable and can be picked right through till spring. A stalk of fresh lemongrass provides a citrusy overtone that works really well with the vegetables. In contrast to our poor serfs and peasants, I only cook my vegetables until just tender so they still retain their crunch.  It is topped with finely shaved truffle, which truly works wonders on the egg, a comforting Provencal addition to each bowl. The fresh herb basil and parsley coulis adds a touch of spring to this winter soup.

Julia Child suggests that when you make Pot-au-feu and you include a variety of meats, to ensure each piece receives the right amount of cooking, you should tie a string to each one and lift it out to see if it’s cooked! I can imagine the reactions from my family, as they watch me hauling out a chicken or a pig’s foot tied to the end of a piece of string from what is to be their dinner. Serve with lots of crunchy bread spread with plenty of unsalted butter to sop up the broth.

Serves 4

3 tbsp olive oil

3 garlic cloves

1 onion, thinly sliced

2 leeks, white part only, cut into 4 cm lengths

Salt and white pepper to taste

3 large potatoes, peeled and thickly sliced

4 carrots, peeled and cut into 4 centimetre lengths

3 cups of chicken stock

1 stick of lemongrass, bashed and split

2 slices of thin orange peel, zest only

6 sliced radish, optional

1 bunch of asparagus, tender parts only chopped into 4 cm lengths

4 large shitake mushrooms, sliced thickly

300g baby spinach leaves

4 large poached eggs

couple of handfuls of fresh basil and parsley

¼ cup of extra virgin olive oil, extra

pinch of salt

shaved truffle, optional

To make the herb coulis, use a stick blender to whizz the basil, parsley and ¼ cup of extra virgin olive oil together with a pinch of sea salt.

In a large frypan warm the olive oil over medium heat. Toss in the garlic, cook for a minute. Add the leek and onion and shake around, Season with salt and pepper. Cook the leek and onion for about 5 minutes. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, stock, lemongrass and orange peel. Bring to the boil and lower heat to a gentle simmer. 

Cook uncovered until the vegetables are just cooked, but not yet tender, this should take about 10 minutes.

While the vegetables are simmering bring an additional frypan of water to a simmer and slip 4 eggs into the water to poach for a couple of minutes until just cooked.

Take the vegetables off the heat, and in the last couple of moments before serving, add the mushrooms, asparagus, baby spinach and radish to the broth to wilt and just warm through.

Ladle the Pot-au-feu into 4 large bowls, top each with a softly poached egg and an optional slice of truffle, a drizzle of herb coulis and serve immediately.

Bresse and baba

Restaurant L'Escargot Paris

First published Canberra Times 22 June 2011.

On a short visit to Paris, we walk across from our nearby hotel to the Châtelet-Les Halles district, an area that has reinvented itself over a number of centuries from shabby to chic, now housing the who’s who of restaurants.

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and the heart of this historic precinct, the Rue Montorgueil is buzzing with locals out for brunch. It’s pretty obvious from the crowd that this is ‘the’ place to eat, shop and be seen.  

Bordering Les Halles, where the city’s old central market was located, the bustling pedestrian street of Rue Montorgueil and its surrounds have taken up the slack and is now home to many artisanal food producers.  The roots of the district have always been centred around food, housing the ‘metiers de la bouche’ the secondary food service industries that grew up servicing the old market. 

It’s a pretty lively area with buskers, street theatre and a plethora of trendy and traditional wine bars. The adjoining street of Rue Mauconseil was home to many historic theatre troupes, including that of 16th-century playwright, Jean Baptiste Racine.

Our new found taste for escargot lures us to a huge golden snail that sits majestically above the entrance to the restaurant L’Escargot, at number 38 Rue Montorgueil. This magnificent example of classic Parisian decor was opened in 1875 by the well known restaurateur Mignard. Oozing decadence, its plush velvet lounges, glistening chandeliers and etched glass provides us with a taster of its past.  We reserve a table for dinner the following night.

Coq au vin blanc

Just along the street is the famous patisserie Le Maison Stohrer. Dating back to 1730, it is one of the oldest patisseries in Paris. I buy two of its signature pastries, the puits d’amour, or the ’well of love’ and a baba au rhum. The puits d’amour is a crispy pastry filled with custard, topped with burnt toffee brittle, and the subject of another infamous Louis story. This is so light, flaky and delicious, I am lost for words. Okay, I’ll try. The brittle toffee layer cracks while the buttery, flaky layers of pastry crunch as I bite down. The warm, creamy brulee dribbles out over my hand and clothes and I am enveloped in a cloud of sweet vanilla, albeit with a messy t-shirt.

I have overdosed on my well of love and can’t contemplate eating the “baba au rhum”, so it’s left it in the bag for later. I’m sorry about that, because I’m not sure how it will fare some hours later.

On my way out of the shop, I stop to check out the gold crown embedded in the floor at the entrance and the opulent murals covering the walls by artist Paul Baudry. I’m afraid these pale into insignificance when confronted with such sweet creations. 

We walk on to my favourite part of the neighbourhood, where there is a cluster of shops dedicated to the “arts de la table”, selling catering equipment and cookware to professional chefs and cooks.  We only have time to visit Dehillerin, Simon and Mora, where the variety of cookware and pastry supplies located on multiple levels is mind-boggling. Our stop here manages to fulfil my kitchen accoutrement addiction and another suitcase, providing a welcome distraction to our imminent Paris departure. 

Bresse chickens

Further down the street we are led by our noses to a boucherie, where chickens are roasting on an outdoor rotisserie. The fat drips below onto a bed of sliced potatoes, sizzling and roasting on an open hotplate. With my well of love now nothing but a faded memory, my stomach is growling again.

I poke my head into the shop and it’s filled with meats of all descriptions, including a pig’s heads with staring eyes, an assortment of innards, pâtés and regional specialty terrines. Resisting the potatoes, I choose a contented looking Bresse chicken, resting peacefully in its refrigerated nest with head still attached, complete with feathers.

Raised in a designated area, near the small town of Bourg-en-Bresse in southeastern France, the flavour of these princely chooks is rated among the best in the world. They are appellation classified, like a good wine, and free to walk around the countryside foraging for insects and eating real food. They are dry plucked and have not been through a chlorine bath process, that many large producers use to reduce the presence of bacteria. French producers have moved away from this technique, after a dioxin scare some years ago and you will be hard pressed to find anything but free range chickens in France.  Although worth it, be prepared to pay at least double the amount for the Bresse experience.

The Bresse works particularly well in this recipe and I use most of the chicken for this dish.  The more gamey and distinctive flavour of this organic chicken, comes through against the subtlety of the winter vegetables and the soft, slightly acidic sauce. Over the years, this recipe learned from Anne Willan, has been one of my standards. You can use chicken marylands, legs or the whole chicken. Sometimes I vary it using all white winter vegetables, or carrots and broadbeans for a change of texture and colour. I have adjusted it to be a little more heart friendly by reducing the butter and cream content, trimming the fat from the chicken and using a light cream.  If you can’t source a Bresse, an organic chook is the next best thing.

Our shared dessert of Baba au Rhum, with a slug of extra rum, freshened and warmed in the microwave, matched the chook perfectly.

Serves 4

Coq au vin blanc
1 organic chicken, cut into pieces or chicken legs/marylands with bones
2 tbsp unsalted butter
1 tbsp olive oil
2 leeks, sliced into 3 cm lengths, the white part only
6 french eschalots, halved
1 organic garlic clove, sliced into chunks
2 carrots, cut into 3 cm lengths
½ cup of broadbeans, blanched and peeled or peas if you prefer
bunch of thyme
1 ½ cups of dry white wine, you may not need all of this, a riesling or chardonnay
¼ cup of light pouring cream
pinch of paprika
2 tsp plain flour
2 tbsp unsalted melted butter, extra
½ tsp sea salt and pepper

Wash the chicken pieces and pat dry with paper towel. Trim the excess skin and fat. Using a large high sided frypan, about 40cm wide, heat the butter and olive oil over a medium heat. Fry the chicken, skin side down, till golden brown, then turning to do the other side. Fry for 4 to 5 minutes on each side, checking for colour. When done, remove from the pan and drain on paper towel. 

Tip away excess oil accumulated in the frypan and return the chicken to the pan. Add garlic, eschalots, leek, thyme, carrots and wine and place over medium to high heat until bubbling. Reduce heat to a low simmer and cover with a lid or foil to cook for about 30 minutes. You can cook this dish either on top of the stove in a frypan, or in a large casserole or roasting dish in a preheated 180 degree oven for the same length of time.

After 30 minutes, remove the lid from the frypan and mix in the cream, paprika and salt and pepper. Replace lid and continue to cook for approximately 20 minutes, or until the chicken is almost coming off the bone.

With a slotted spoon, carefully remove the chicken and vegetables from the sauce to a bowl and cover with foil.  Keep the sauce on the heat. At this stage if there is any excess fat on the top of the sauce, blot with paper towel or skim off.

Mix the flour and melted butter together and add this to the sauce, cooking for a further couple of minutes. Taste for seasoning and pour the sauce over the chicken and vegetables, lastly adding the broadbeans or peas.

If preparing this meal in advance, complete up until the final step where you have removed the chicken and vegetables from the sauce. When you are ready, reheat the sauce, adding the flour and butter mixture and return the chicken and vegetables to reheat through before serving.

If you prefer you can omit the flour and butter paste at the end, resulting in a thinner sauce.

This meal also looks great served at Christmas, using all white vegetables, served with creamy mashed potato, to complement an all white theme. Photos Steve Shanahan