Unsurprisingly, the authors have their naysayers, most of whom argue that the project embodies the worst of foodie pretensions, but I don’t agree: first, because the thing wasn’t really written for you or me, it was written because the authors believed that the stuff between the covers needed writing-down; and second, whether or not the book even makes money is beside the point, because its main sponsor is Mr. Myhrvold, a former CTO of Microsoft, accomplished chef in his own right, and the sort of guy who could drop the GDP of a small Caribbean nation without noticing that his bank balance had fallen.

As I understand it, the tome is much less a cookbook than an attempt to codify everything we’ve learned in the culinary regime of cooks like Ferran Adria, Thomas Keller,  and Heston Blumenthal. In many respects, Modernist Cuisine aims to be nothing less than the 200-year coda to Careme’s 1833 masterpiece, L’Art de la Cuisine Française, a book still broadly considered to be the first serious attempt at collecting the entire state of the culinary arts in one place, at one time.

If you’re still left wondering who the book was written for, the authors make an impassioned case that modernist techniques are relevant for home cooks as well as serious professionals, although they remain uncompromising in their approach, despite its inherent complexities. While I applaud their enthusiasm, and greatly respect their refusal to cut corners, I still suspect that 36-hour hamburger recipes and other feats of culinary wonder requiring medium-sized laboratories full of highly specialized equipment may not be for everyonene:

Finally, as to why the thing costs so damn much, the six-volume, 2,438-page set con­tains 3,126 pho­tos on art-quality paper and a kitchen-proof plastic-coated manual, took a team of over 50 people more than five years to produce, and weighs more than my kindergartener. From the little I know about bricks-and-mortar publishing, the economic and logistical obstacles alone decry virtually every survival instinct of the industry, so I don’t necessarily object to the price per se. And I’d be disingenuous if I didn’t admit to an existential appreciation of the project – like a threatened species from some remote warren of the world that I’ll never visit, I still feel better just knowing that it’s there. But as to shelling out $625 for food porn, I’m just not sure…

A Very Green Salad: Green Arugula, Green Zebras, and Green Peppercorns

I’ve been thinking about cooking green. And no, I’m not pandering to my more aggressively environmentalist brethren, I’m talking about the color green, the shades of which the human eye is more sensitive to than any other part of the visible spectrum: The haughty, peacock green of my grandmother’s emerald broach; the brooding, mossy green of the Russian River pooling under Wohler Bridge; the wicked, tempting greens of jalapeno peppers and the Witch of the West, the quiet greens of my wife’s eyes or pine boughs in snowy relief, and the cool greens of Key lime pie and margaritas by the pool. Green. It’s the new black, or whatever.

And yet, despite the remarkable human capacity to perceive green in all its rich and verdant glory, it’s hard for me to think of either a more nondescript or vaguely depressing menu billing as the ubiquitous “green salad”. Every time I read that line, I am transported, as if by some strip-mall perversion of Monsieur Proust’s cookie, to the nearest Sizzler-Olive Garden-Applebee’s-Chili’s, or my college cafeteria, with its dubious cornucopia of flaccid, tired “greens”, really more beige than green, the browning leaves marked, perhaps, by a disturbing pinkish edge, were I to look closely enough…

This all comes to mind because my wife, who vastly prefers to think about animals as pets rather than ingredients, and who happens to count green as her very favorite color, occasionally likes our otherwise steady diet of carbs and protein interspersed with fresh vegetables, and so I decided to make a green salad that would actually be green, entirely of its own natural accord: Brilliant, emerald-green arugula from Bernier Farms; chartreuse Green Zebra heirloom tomatoes from Soda Rock; and a simple vinaigrette, studded with mossy-green peppercorns.

(As an aside, master the home-made vinaigrette – what Thomas Keller called “a perfect sauce” – and you’ll never buy salad dressing again. The basic technique is a simple emulsion – check out the Foodista widget below for a quick tutorial – from which, with the right proportions of acid, fat, and seasoning, and a whisk, all dressings are possible.)

Emulsify

On occasion, someone will serve me something so completely unexpected that it upends how I think about flavors, not because it’s so radical, but because it sounds radical and tastes natural: White chocolate and caviar, or salmon poached in licorice (both found at the Fat Duck), the French Laundry’s justly celebrated dish of tapioca with oysters and caviar, or just the odd and unexpected, like cheese and chocolate. But I have no aspirations of Michelin etoiles and my favorite flavor pairings are the ones that I stumble upon in the normal course of every day life and which I know, with absolute certainty, will sing on the palate before I even taste it. Such was my experience, while hunting and gathering at the Saturday market, when I heard Dan the Tomato Man of Soda Rock Farms talking up his Padron peppers to another shopper, and to whome he issued the following guarantee: “If you sit down and try these peppers with a cold beer, you’ll finish them off, or I’ll give you your money back.” It was a really big bag of peppers.

A light-bulb moment of clarity and conviction, so frustratingly rare (at least for me) and all the more profound for it: Prepare the peppers in the classic fashion by blistering them in a pan, then tossing them with a pungent, grassy olive oil (preferably from the Dry Creek Valley) and big pinch of fleur de sel (don’t be shy about the salt – I don’t want to hear about blood pressure, and the alcohol should compensate), and serve with a well-chilled Racer 5 from the Bear Republic Brewery: Padrons tend to have a mild heat and a fairly pronounced bitterness which would pair perfectly with the bitter hoppy-ness of the Racer 5, and the occasional spice-bomb – Padrons are often referred to as Russian Roulette peppers for their unpredictable bite – would provide a tantalizingly painful excuse for more beer. The key ingredients – peppers, olive oil, and beer (I insist on French salt…) – are all produced within a few miles of my house and, as with any beer snack worthy of its name, the dish would require virtually zero prep (merely rinse and dry the peppers whole and church-key the beer), one pan, and no additional ingredients.

I love salty nuts, but these Padrons are, hands-down, my new favorite beer snack.

Padron Peppers, and Not Much Else

Put a saute pan on relatively high heat (medium if you have a high-BTU cooktop, more like high otherwise) and, while the pan warms, wash the peppers and pat them dry (it’s important for them to be dry – you seriously don’t want to be putting water into a blistering hot pan of oil).

Sautee them hot, fast, and keep them moving

You’ll finish the beer and the peppers, or your money back.

[Post-script: I originally posted this over the summer on my old site, when the Padrons first came in, at least a month later than typical, due to our exceptionally cool weather and commensurately delayed growing season. Normally, they'd be long gone by November, but look around - I bought them a week or two ago, and considering the tomato crop that is still out there, the little green devils might still be on the stands.]

Ad Hoc

Ad Hoc is here to stay. Though the restaurant was only supposed to be a temporary experiment, Thomas Keller’s home-style prix-fix diner has settled in for the long haul after enthusiastic eaters practically mobbed the place.

Unlike other chef-lebrities who’ve lowered standards to accommodate eager fans, Keller’s trademark perfectionism at Ad Hoc is evident in everything from the attentive (but casual) service to the family-style entrees that manage to be both elegant and homey at the same time. Dishes are served family style, so get cozy.

Don’t miss dishes: Buttermilk fried chicken