Far from the sad-looking samosas and freakishly orange-coloured butter chicken in the local Indian takeaway shop was my Indian food experience this week. I'd never cooked Indian before, and I was excited. I was particularly excited to add to my ever-growing spice collection. To buy my ingredients, I headed to Vinayak (642 King St, Newtown) where we were greeted by walls of Bollywood DVDs and Indian music CDs before hitting the jackpot: the shelves piled high with spices.
My lovely Indian friend Akash supplied the recipes - and we enjoyed them together with his boy Rick and my AJ. After breaking into a cheeky grin a little way through the meal, Akash revealed that one of the dishes wasn't actually his - it was from a book, but he'd changed it. After some debate, we all agreed it's now safe to call it his own.
First course was Tangy-Sweet Balti Paneer (all recipes below), which was fantastic - the hit dish of the night for me. Balti means "bucket" in Hindi and reflects the cooking style, where you keep adding ingredients to one pan as you cook. Making the sauce reminded me of those times as a kid when you'd be at a cafe lunch with your parents and their friends, and would quell boredom by a making a special concoction in your empty milkshake glass: a shake of salt, a sprinkling of pepper, the dregs of your mum's coffee, maybe a squirt of tomato sauce ... please tell me I'm not the only one who did this?! Give me a break - I'm an only child, I had to make my own fun sometimes! Anyway, I digress - the paste was made up of yoghurt, mango chutney, tomato paste, garlic, chilli, sugar and the famous Indian spice blend, garam masala.
To make the dish, all you need to do is bring the paste to the boil, stir in the paneer, coriander and some cream, and you're done. I hadn't eaten paneer before, but I loved it. Kind of a cross between haloumi (less rubbery), feta (less salty) and tofu (cheesier and more firm).
The main course consisted of two curries - one a chicken and coriander curry, the other a lamb keema curry. Starting the chicken curry I was a tad worried. The marinade of yoghurt, turmeric and garlic looked fabulous, but the next step was to turn red onion into a paste in a food processor. My lack of food processor means I put most things into a blender, but it looked like I was making a red onion smoothie and when I lifted the lid, the onioniness was so strong the tears flowed. Thank God this time it wasn't out of frustration. But cooked on the stove for half an hour and mingled with fresh tomatoes, a cashew, coriander and paneer paste, as well as several spices, it turned out terrifically.
Indian bolognaise was next. This keema (which means minced meat) curry was great. Again, it featured red onions, which were cooked for 40 minutes before being mixed with toasted cumin seeds, canned tomatoes, and of course more spices. The result was super tasty - so good that we used the leftovers as a pizza topping drizzled with Greek-style yoghurt - yum!
As I'm finding on this culinary expedition, sometimes it's tricky when you're cooking something for the first time and have no idea how the dish should taste, but it's, for the most part, a pleasant surprise. Akash thought it was amazing having his food cooked for him and even sung my praises saying, "Oh my God Jacqui, these are better than mine." Awww, thanks Akash. To see if you were just being kind though, you'll have to cook them all for me...
We rounded out the meal with a handful of bright-coloured, sugar-coated fennel seeds - the Indian breath freshener. It took Akash back to his childhood, and to have given him that, I was pleased.
Tangy-sweet Balti Paneer
1. Combine 4 tbs sweet mango chutney, 4 tbs Greek-style yoghurt, 6 tbs tomato paste, 2 tsp crushed garlic, 2 tsp garam masala, 2 tsp salt, 1 tsp red chilli and 1 tsp sugar in a large bowl. Beat to make a smooth sauce.
2. Heat 1 tbs oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the tomato paste mixture and cook for 1 minute or until the mixture begins to boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 3 minutes.
3. Add 400g paneer, cut into 1cm cubes, to the pan and heat through. Add 10 tbs pouring cream, 1 large green chilli, thinly sliced, and 1 cup coriander leaves. Heat through.
4. Add 1 tsp garam masala in the last one minute of cooking. Transfer to bowl, drizzle with 1 tbs pouring cream and scatter with coriander leaves to serve.
Coriander-cashew chicken curry
1. Marinate (overnight or for three hours) 750 chicken breast, cut into 2cm cubes, in 125g Greek-style yoghurt, 1 tsp salt, 1 tsp turmeric and 1 tsp garlic.
2. Process 2 large red onions in a food processor to a paste. Heat 1 tbs oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring frequently, for 40 minutes or until very dark browned.
3. Add ½ tsp turmeric, 2½ tsp coriander powder, 1 tsp red chilli and 1 tsp salt. Cook for 1 minute to release the flavours of the spices. Add 2 large finely diced tomatoes and cook for 5 minutes.
4. Shallow fry marinated chicken in a separate pan and add to the onion mixture. Cover and cook for 5 minutes on low.
5. Meanwhile, process 20 cashew nuts, 100g paneer and ½ cup coriander in a food processor. Add a little water to form a smooth paste.
6. Stir the cashew nut mixture into the chicken. Cover and cook for 15 minutes.
Lamb keema curry
1. Heat 1 tbs oil in a large frying pan. Fry 2 very finely chopped red onions over medium-low heat, stirring often, for about 30-40 minutes or until very dark brown.
2. Add 1 tsp crushed garlic and 1 tsp ground ginger until aromatic. Add 2 tsp toasted cumin seeds, 1 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp turmeric, 2-3 tsp ground coriander, 1/2 tsp red chilli powder and 1 tsp garam masala.
3. Add 200-300g chopped canned tomatoes. Simmer for 2-3 mins.
4. Meanwhile, cook 600-700g lamb mince in a separate pan until browned. Stir lamb into spice mixture.
So I've reached plate 21. In some countries 21 is a coming of age, a milestone worth celebrating. Instead of popping a bottle of bubbles, the celebration was a Canadian breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning. It was made complete by the pitter-patter of rain outside: I could think of nowhere cosier than my kitchen on a miserable weekend.
To prepare for this week's journey I contacted our Canadian friend Lindsay who confirmed my concerns about Canadian cuisine. Much like Australia, in Canada there's nothing that stands out as a national dish, largely because of the population's diverse range of backgrounds. However, like Vegemite and lamb in Australia, bacon and maple syrup are two ingredients that are loved by the people. Let's just say Lindsay had me at "blueberry pancakes with maple syrup bacon". I was also highly intrigued by the French Canadian classic poutine - hot chips drowned in cheese and gravy - but my heart almost attacked at the thought. Temptation may get the better of me at some point, though, so I'll save this recipe for another time.
I salivated at the sound of Canadian Living magazine's blueberry pancakes with lemon zest and ricotta. The pancakes I grew up on were my grandmother's, which were thin French-style crepes, but Canadian pancakes are thicker, fluffier, and just as delicious - as I discovered. The ricotta gave a lovely light texture, the lemon added a great subtle zing and the blueberries offered a juicy, fruity burst of flavour.
The magazine says there's no reason to serve the pancakes with calorie-laden maple syrup when you can serve them with their berry compote, but I say au contraire: drizzling them with pure maple syrup (made from the sap of the native Canadian sugar maple tree), which gave the final sweet touch, is a must.
This fabulously rich, sugary liquid gold isn't just used in sweet dishes - it's also used to lace bacon, Canadian bacon. They don't call it Canadian bacon in Canada, they call it back bacon or peameal bacon. Unlike bacon from the belly of the pig, Canadian bacon is from the pig's back. My local butcher didn't have Canadian bacon, but the Kassler bacon they gave me was a close substitute. It was much thinner, and less fatty and smoky than the bacon we're used to. Swimming in a mix of melted butter and the famous maple syrup, it tasted really wonderful. Sweet. Salty. Sticky. Sensational.
While you can buy maple flavoured syrup, which is about half the cost of pure maple syrup, for authentic taste buy the real McCoy. With a stack of pancakes and a plateful of bacon this good you'll get your money's worth - it's enough to make you sigh in delight, "Oh, Canada".
Ah, schnitzel. My love of the schnit goes way back. As a kid I used to go with my parents and some friends to Bill 'n Toni's in Sydney - the no-frills establishment famous for hearty food and decor that's remained unchanged for 50 years. Ordering the schnitzel and cheese was the highlight of my week. The schnitzel was the size of a plate larger than my head and cheese was melted over the whole thing, oozing and bubbling in all its golden glory. It always reached the table with a word of warning from the waiter that the plate was very hot, which it was, but it was also extremely delicious. My love of the schnit has never wavered. A few years ago, friends and I discovered the White Cockatoo pub in Petersham who serve all manner of schnit. And so, in thinking what to cook for week 20 of the journey, Austria sprung to mind and there was no question of what the dish would be.
Like many countries I've tastebud toured, Austrian cuisine is diverse and reflective of its proximity and dealings with other countries in its vicinity, including Germany, Hungary, Turkey, Croatia and Italy. The wiener schnitzel (literally meaning Viennese schnitzel) is Vienna's most renowned and well-loved dish. Apparently the term "wiener schnitzel" is protected by law in Austria, meaning any schnitzel called by that name has to be made from veal. The history of the dish is said to be traced to a Kaiser Basileios who liked his meat coated in sheets of gold. (Don't we all, Kaiser?) The "gold" was adapted to breadcrumbs that were used by the Italians in a dish called "costoletta alla milanese", which an Austrian general discovered when the country was at war with Italy in the 19th century. The general then reported this culinary marvel to the Austrian Kaiser. From here, the crumbing and frying technique used in schnitzel today was perfected by the Austrians.
Whatever its history, a schnit never disappoints. Served on the side was the wiener schnitzels' traditional Austrian accompaniment - erdapfel salat - potatoes par-boiled and sliced mixed with red onion, vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper. Fresh and fantastic.
Onto dessert. I'd never tried my hand at an apple strudel - I'm not sure why, since I love the flaky pastry on the outside and sweet, cinnamon, sultana fruitiness inside - but now was the perfect opportunity. I also love saying apfelstrudel in my best Austrian accent - channel Schwarzenegger and you've got it.
Not having enough time, patience or skill to make the pastry from scratch, which is supposed to be rolled super-duper thin, I cheated - as instructed by Nigel Slater - and used filo pastry. If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me. One day I might graduate to rolling my own strudel dough, but for easy home cooking, I'll stick with filo.
Yes I know, Congo - it's a bit random. A late night documentary - Don't Tell My Mother on the National Geographic channel - led me to this week's journey. The doco wasn't about food, but about the country's battle with AIDS, gangs, corruption and other not-so-lovely things that I didn't know about the Democratic Republic of Congo. I also didn't know that: it has the highest frequency of thunderstorms in the world; it's larger in size than Spain, France, Germany, Sweden and Norway combined; it sits in both hemispheres (one-third in the northern and two-thirds in the southern); there's an estimated 242 languages spoken; and its national dish is moambe, which apparently means "eight" (in which one of those languages I'm not so sure!). Trivia buffs: remember these facts.
Moambe is a meat-based dish with a sauce that's traditionally made from the fruit and oil of the African oil palm. Oddly enough I didn't have this at my disposal, so I went for a recipe that was slightly more Aussie-kitchen friendly. Moambe features flavours of tomato, onion and cayenne pepper, and when the recipe I found called for tomato sauce and peanut butter, I must admit I was dubious.
On the upside, the dish was really easy to cook - just coat chicken pieces in cayenne pepper and salt, throw it into a pot of boiling water, cover and cook for about 35-45 minutes until tender. When that's almost done, sautee some onion in butter, add tomato sauce and simmer for a bit. Add the chicken, cover and cook for a little more, then add a big dollop of peanut butter (uh huh, that's what you can see above in the pot). Stir it all up and there you have it.
Surprisingly it was pretty yummo - the flavours worked quite well together. While the peanut butter was a little strong, it gave a nice sticky texture and rich taste. I doubt this is Congolese, but we served it with a side of steamed brussels sprouts and it made a simple but relatively tasty Monday-night dinner.
Sadly, though, our humble midweek dinner would be a luxury for many people of the Congo who are faced with famine. So the nice-tasting dish was, in fact, slightly bittersweet.
I read a quote the other day that said: “Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.” So that’s where I’ll start. Flicking through the North African Cooking book my lovely friend Sal lent to me, I came across a recipe that’s very special to me: ghorayebah (pronounced oy-ah-reh-ba). Mem – my grandmother – used to make these shortbread biscuits for special occasions and they were my absolute favourite things ever. She dusted them generously with icing sugar and they had the ultimate melt-in-the-mouth texture. All these years I never knew which country they came from, but the Tess Mallos cookbook says they’re a favourite in Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria and Libya.
I was really excited to cook them. Sadly, the result was not as exciting as I'd hoped. I started really well, making a smooth almond dough then shaped neat little balls and popped them on trays. I diligently checked their progress in the oven, swapping the trays every so often so they’d cook evenly. The recipe instructed not to cook them for too long or the taste would be ruined, so I wanted to make sure they were just right.
As I like to try to follow a good time-management plan in the kitchen, as the biscuits baked I set to work on the tagine – Morocco’s national dish (it’s the name of both the slow-cooked dish and the cone-shaped pot that it’s cooked in) – coating the lamb shanks in spices, making sure they were browning nicely … well the shanks were by that stage, but my biscuits were a little too well browned (oops). As I rushed to open the oven door, smoke billowed out and three-quarters of my bikkie batch had black-as-night bases. Tears? Almost. But it didn’t stop AJ from tasting the top of one of them. “Mmmmmm, they’re good,” is what I deciphered. We proceeded to munch the tops of them and, although not as melt-in-the-mouth as my grandmother’s (this wasn’t her recipe though), they were still tasty. I was still devo that I wouldn’t be able to serve them to my dinner party friends, but bless the boy: “let’s save them,” he said, as he started carefully scraping off the burnt bums. He even arranged them nicely on the tray.
As well as the cookbook, Sally lent me her tagine, which is a really cool kitchen tool. I've been wanting one for a little while, but haven't got around to getting one. You can cook a tagine in a casserole dish or a large saucepan, but for the fun factor, use a tagine. They’re good because most of them can go in the oven and on the stove, and they look good when you bring them to the table and serve from them.
To go with the tagine I served couscous – a Moroccan staple – cooking it with a little butter. I’ve always read that to cook couscous you just need to pour it into a bowl, pour over enough boiling water to cover it, then cover the bowl with Glad wrap and let it steam for about 5 minutes. This fails me every time. While it’s edible, it's always a but gluggy – I never achieve that light fluffiness. Can anyone help?
The other side was a simple tomato, capsicum and onion salad, sprinkled with a little ground cumin for a kick of flavour and preserved lemons that had been marinating on my kitchen bench for four weeks. They’re really easy to make by the way – the work is done for you by the lemons just sitting in the jar with salt, spices and lemon juice.
Oh, and I also made two dips: a hummus-coloured butter bean dip and bessara, a broad bean dip that had waaaaaay too much garlic in it - I had to add more broad beans to it with the help of Al who arrived just as I'd tasted it and almost set my mouth on fire. Yes, apparently too much garlic can do this. (Note, I used frozen broad beans instead of dried cooked ones, so I most likely had the quantities wrong.)
Other than a few little hiccups, I think things went pretty well, and dear Sal, who is also ice-cream maker extraordinaire, brought over a rosewater fro yo (frozen yoghurt), which was a superb way to round out the meal.
I loved the MasterChef show last year and watched the second series for the first time the other night – I loved every nail-biting minute.
I talk of MasterChef because the recipe I cooked for plate 17 was supplied by the 2009 runner-up – Poh. Well, not personally. My friend Al found it online and passed it onto me.
The dish is nyonya chicken curry, and as Poh says: it’s quintessentially Malaysian. Nyonya is the name given to the blend of Malay and Chinese cooking styles.
A quick trip to the local IGA and my favourite Asian supermarket around the corner from our house, and I was armed with all I needed to make this famous curry. The curry of course needed a spice paste for the base and, forget packaged spice pastes, it’s so much fun to make your own. I’d never done it before but it was really simple to do. I used my makeshift mortar and pestle – a large glass mixing bowl and a cocktail muddling stick, which worked a treat.
The spice paste called for shrimp paste - known in Malaysia as belachan - said to be the key ingredient in nyonya food. When I lifted the lid it stank like dirty socks, but when mingled with garlic, eschalots, lots of dried chillies and crushed spices that I’d dried fried, it was mellow and delicious. Then I just heated it all in a wok, added some star anise, cinnamon, chicken, coconut cream and coconut milk, popped on a lid (upside-down frying pan), and let it simmer away for about 25 minutes.
The result was fantastic. A tiny taste revealed it was nice and spicy, but totally tolerable, even if you're like us and trying to increase your tolerance to chilli. It was really great and very easy to make during the week. I would've loved to have made the roti - the staple Malaysian bread - to serve with it, but that wouldn't have been very easy during the week - unless you chucked a sickie of course. Enjoy! x
