No-Cook

My friend Yvonne makes this salad for her summertime pool parties when we crave something cool and light, which is often. She tosses it in a big bowl, we throw something on the grill, and everyone heads for her backyard pool. Sometimes we float in the pool all afternoon, climbing out of the water only when we need a watermelon break. It’s a great way to beat the Texas heat. Using the scooped-out watermelons as serving bowls means this dish performs double duty: satisfying your guests’ appetites and adding an eye-catching decorative touch. It’s easier than you think and your friends will marvel at your artistic flair.

Some of my favorite sandwiches need very little prep work, just the right combination of top-notch ingredients. This is one of them. Dark bread, smoky fish, tart apple, and complex Gouda make magic together. All you have to do is slice, spread, cut, eat, and smile.

Like many food-oriented folk, I have a serious kimchi obsession going. But I didn’t want just any old kimchi recipe in this book. And I knew just where to turn in search of a recipe that has a little something extra: my friend Deb Samuels, cooking teacher and coauthor with Taekyung Chung of The Korean Table: From Barbecue to Bibimbap. Deb keeps up on all things Korean, and she told me that not only is it becoming more fashionable to salt kimchi less than traditional recipes call for, but also that the water-soaking process probably can be skipped entirely. She also said one of her favorites is a white kimchi with a main ingredient of Asian pear, which happened to already feature strongly in my Korean Short Rib Tacos (page 92). Why not try a kimchi with cabbage and pear together? Of course, she was right on the money. Look for Korean chili powder, which has a distinctive heat but a mellow, sweet undertone, in Asian supermarkets; for kimchi, there really is no substitute. Once you have your ingredients, this kimchi could hardly be simpler to make, and the slight sweetness and crunch it gets from the pear make it positively haunting. Besides using it on the tacos, use it on Kimchi, Ham, and Fried Egg Pizza (page 107) and Fried Rice with Cauliflower and Kimchi (page 136).

I got this recipe from Patricia Jinich, chef-instructor at the Mexican Cultural Institute in Washington, D.C., who got it from her sister. Don’t be fooled by its simplicity; it is perfectly balanced. It will keep its lively color for about a week in the refrigerator, but the flavor will last another week or two, meaning you can feel free to splash it onto all manner of salads, plus avocados, tomatoes, green beans, even cold rice. You can also use other leafy herbs, particularly parsley, basil, or mint, instead of the cilantro.

While I was in college (along with 49,999 of my closest friends at the University of Texas at Austin), I was one of the many nonvegetarian fans of Mother’s, an iconic vegetarian restaurant in Hyde Park, where I’d pretty much always get a smoothie and a huge spinach salad with this pungent dressing. Besides cashews, the main ingredient is tamari, a richer version of soy sauce that’s traditionally (but not always) made without wheat. Decades later, Mother’s is still going strong, reopening after a 2007 fire and still serving this dressing (bottling it for retail sale, even). Thanks to the glories of Google, I was able to track down a recipe for it from Rachel MacIntyre, a personal chef in Austin who blogs at thefriendlykitchen.com and used to work at Mother’s precursor, West Lynn Cafe. I lightened it a little bit, but it’s as addictive as ever. I toss it onto spinach and other salads, of course, but also baked potatoes, broiled asparagus, steamed carrots, and more, including Charred Asparagus, Tofu, and Farro Salad (page 144).

Imagine strolling home along the long dusty road after a hard day in the fields. At the crossroads you encounter a gaggle of tow-haired youngsters sitting at a card table. “Sidecar, mister?” they shout. The sidecar is a lemonade drink for grown-ups. A touch of salt opens up the entire experience, makes it restorative. Citrus playing tag with sugar, chilled juice teeter-tottering with warming alcohol, the entire drink alloyed with salt’s wisdom and captured beautifully in a glass of coppery liquid.

Sauce is basically salt in liquid form, gussied up with any manner of delicious glutamates, lipids, acids, and aromatics. There are nuances, sure, but the nuances are, well, nuances. Sauces can be more than that. Mango salsa is an example of a sauce so succulent that it challenges the raison d’être of the food for which it was created. Tacos, empanadas, tortilla chips, hamburgers, pizza—all become mere delivery vehicles for the lush, tart, spicy salsa. All the more so when the salt is introduced as a distinctive ingredient in its own right. Confettied with onyx black or garnet red crystals of Hawaiian salt, this salsa brings a firecracker pop of festivity that celebrates saucing not just for flavor, but as visual and textural celebration of food. Use it atop anything from fried fish tacos to green salad to yogurt to steak.

Instructed by my mother to feed the cats, I would push the door open, inch by inch, watching the sliver of light from the kitchen stab into the darkness, waiting for it to widen gradually into a triangle across the floor, bright enough to reassure me that nothing was going to attack my hand as it darted through the gap to flip on the light switch inside the garage. For a month every year, our garage changed from a dark and hazardous clutter of bikes, chainsaws, and gardening equipment to a truly terrifying place. Even in daylight I avoided the place, but when obliged to enter—such as when forced to feed the cats (whom I’d gladly have let starve), or if I really needed a bike or a skateboard—I kept a keen eye on the cinder block and plank shelves at the back, where malevolent orange enamel pots burped with sinister unpredictability. Days went by. Cobwebs formed (the better to ensnare the cats). Whenever I might show the slightest hint of getting on familiar terms with this horror—of letting down my guard—the pots would burp again, the lids would clatter, the cats would scatter, trailing cobwebs into the attic, and I would fly to my mother’s legs and cling to them so tightly that she’d shriek in alarm. My reward for surviving? A measured respect for the mysteries of fermentation and a tangy mound of steaming sauerkraut bedded with boiled Polish and German sausages. It was worth it.

Impress your Jewish grandma with gravlax, or just impress yourself. Actually, my Nana preferred the cold-smoked cousin, lox, but gravlax is an incredibly easy, positively delicious way to cure salmon. The name comes from any number of Nordic fish dishes inspired by the openly morbid technique of burying in the ground (grave) your salmon (lax) with some salt cure. I like this dish because it yields a particularly moist, delicate, and lightly salted gravlax, since the salinity of the salt block does not migrate as readily into the fish flesh as a packed cure of loose salt. Also, because you don’t need plates and weights, and because the salt blocks can be reused over and over again, the method boasts a certain elegance and economy of tools. See page 267 for more about salt blocks.

Sometimes ingredients make strange bedfellows. Chocolate and cheese are not the most natural mates, but when the cheese is a heady, acidic, barnyard-fresh goat’s milk cheese and the chocolate is bits of roasted cocoa bean, unsweetened and compact as an espresso bean, unexpected things happen. You get something more. But you can’t quite tell what. The flavors square off, then shift, then subvert one another. Then they take a pause. The air is thick with tension, but nothing stirs. Suddenly, like a gunshot comes the massive crunch of Cyprus black flake sea salt and everything is movement. It all becomes clear in an instant: a dish that’s as comforting as grandma’s chicken potpie and yet uncivilly decadent. . . . A secret pleasure of serving this dish is watching even the most well-bred guest slyly supplement each bite with an added pinch of black salt crystals.

Imagine a garden. In it are Black Spanish, Burpee, Champion, Cherry Queen, China Rose, Early Scarlet Globe, Easter Egg, French Breakfast, Fuego, Icicle, Plum Purple, Snow Belle, Tama— all radishes. The best way to eat all of them, to savor their isothiocyanate heat, to luxuriate in their woody density, is with butter and salt. The silken texture of the butter plays off the radishes’ crunch, and the two take a honeymoon together, visiting the sultry destinations of spiciness and cream. Fleur de sel is the key. Its moistness helps its crystals ride out the voyage long enough for the radish and butter to make their cquaintance in your mouth. It also lends mineral richness and texture to both. Fleur de sel, a pat of butter, and a radish— a poem penned by summer.

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 rimmings. In the modern case, these might involve a glowing egg yolk cradled in a caldera of flesh, slivers of oily anchovy, the pickled plumpness of capers—an interplay of texture and flavor, of raw and cured, oils and acids, aromatics and salt. The spectral freshness and crackling crunch of Halen Môn penetrates through this wonderful exchange and substantiates it—footnotes in the secret life your mind leads during the most intense moments of pleasure at the table.

Lovage looks like a young celery branch with leaves, and in fact tastes like a slightly spicy celery. Most farmers’ markets have it in the spring and summer. Substitute a celery branch for the lovage stem in a pinch.

This is our take on a somewhat composed cheese dessert for Ssäm Bar.

Nut crunch makes a great pie crust! I absolutely love this pie, but it doesn’t fit into the composed dessert realm of Ssäm Bar’s menu and it isn’t quick and easy to pack like Milk Bar pies need to be, so it never made it onto a menu. It’s a delicious recipe you’ll only find here.

Growing up, I hated this Korean fermented delicacy. My father would drag me miles away to the Korean supermarket down an alley to buy this stuff. He would bring it home and literally evacuate the house when he broke the seal on the jar. It wasn’t until I started working at Momofuku that I learned that I really love kimchi, and that there are many, many levels of potency throughout the kimchi-producing kitchens in this country. The Momofuku cookbook has a ridiculously tasty kimchi recipe (among others). Or use your favorite brand of cabbage-based kimchi in this recipe.

This butter is great on a soft pretzel, a warm sandwich, or a hot dog bun!