Chocolate & Zucchini | Page 95 of 221 | Simple Recipes from my Paris Kitchen

Aug
24
2010

Pain au Levain (Sourdough Bread)

Last spring, we had a few friends over for dinner who were visiting from the US. One of them works for the excellent magazine The Art of Eating, and kindly thought to bring us the latest issue*.

It would have been a lovely hostess gift under any circumstances, but as I sat down to read it the next day, I was jump-on-the-couch ecstatic to discover that it contained no fewer than fourteen pages (fourteen! pages!) on the subject of pain au levain (a.k.a. sourdough bread), which has been my number-one kitchen obsession for the past year and a half — probably the longest-standing ever, too. (See my initial post on natural starter bread and ensuing starter-based recipes.)

This fourteen-page (fourteen! pages!) article is written by James MacGuire, an esteemed American chef and baker who, as I learned from the contributors’ section, acted as the technical editor in the English translation of Raymond Calvel’s fundamental boulangerie book The Taste of Bread.

Following a discussion on the history and technique of pain au levain, MacGuire shares a recipe I eagerly tried a few days later. It was such a success it has become our go-to bread, and I’ve baked a weekly loaf of it ever since.

The perfect process for pain au levain

The originality of the process is that it requires no kneading (but not that kind of no-kneading). Instead, the dough is simply folded over itself as it ferments in the mixing bowl, a few times every hour over a period of four hours. This develops the gluten and the flavor, yielding a wonderfully tasty loaf with minimal effort.

To be clear, it’s not that I mind the kneading, especially since I generally just use my stand mixer, but it is a noisy animal, and this method allows me to get a loaf started in the blissful silence of weekend mornings, without awaking the entire household. (And yes, I realize I could also knead the dough by hand, but I’ve never really gotten into the zen of kneading high-hydration doughs. I just get annoyed by the goo.)

Another departure from my previous routine is that MacGuire recommends keeping a 66%-hydration starter, i.e. a starter that’s fed 2 parts water and 3 parts flour (in weight) at every feeding, as opposed to the half-and-half rule I’d been following up until now. I’ve made the transition without any problem and frankly my starter seems no less or more active than it was before, but I’m sticking to it out of habit now.

How I make pain au levain

I make the recipe with French T80 flour (farine bise, a partially whole wheat flour), which is the type of flour MacGuire would use while baking in France, and often mix it with some T110 as well (farine intégrale, for which a little more of the grain husk is kept) for a greyer crumb. Because the recipe is written with American bakers in mind, MacGuire suggests emulating T80 or T110 flour by using some all-purpose flour and some whole wheat flour, which you’ll sift first to remove part of the bran it contains.

I’ve scaled down the recipe — almost halving it — to make the amount of bread we’ll eat within eight days or so, and I’ve rounded the gram amounts after the scaling, to make the recipe easier to memorize (though I admit I keep a cheat sheet on the fridge).

The overall timeline has you prepare the starter in two successive builds the day before baking (one in the afternoon, one before bed), then prepare the dough in the morning and bake it in the afternoon. This works out smoothly for those who work from home, naturally, but if you don’t, you can perhaps fit this into your weekend schedule, building the starter on Saturday and baking the bread on Sunday. I’ve indicated specific times for clarity, but you can shift the whole process according to your needs.

I still feel I have room for improvement in my understanding and use of this recipe: the oven spring is not always consistent (I got less than usual when I took the photo above) and I’d like to try and get a thicker crust, but the flavor is excellent and the crumb well aerated, so I’m already very pleased with it.

I admit I am not very diligent about the temperature at which I keep my starter and proofing dough (nevertheless I’ve indicated MacGuire’s recommendation below), nor about the temperature of the water I use in the dough, and those are factors I plan to work on.

I would like to note again that there is a lot more to the article that this recipe (did I mention the number of pages it spans?) and you’ll get more insight into the recipe by reading about it in MacGuire’s words, so I encourage you to get a copy of the magazine if you can. (And you don’t need me telling you that this sort of independent, subscriber-funded, ad-free publication needs the support of people like you.)

* Issue #83 can be back-ordered on the Art of Eating website.

Pain au Levain: Crumb

Aug
11
2010

Roasted Patty Pan Squash and Herbed Chickpeas

The patty pan squash (in French: le pâtisson) is a member of the blended summer squash family. Shaped very much like a UFO with undulating edges — each bump a tiny cockpit with an alien inside, presumably –, it can be conical or squat, and comes in shades of yellow, green, or white. The flesh inside is the color of clotted cream, its heart studded with edible seeds like the center of a zucchini.

Like all summer squash, the patty pan squash is best eaten when young and small. I prefer patty pans that are no larger than the palm of my hand, with a buttery and subtly sweet taste and faint artichoke notes.

Patty Pan Squashes

If you do find such specimens — at the farmers market or perhaps in your CSA share –, make sure you use them soon after bringing them home: in my experience, they don’t keep as well as your average zucchini, and their skin mottles after a couple of days.

(If you’re only able to find bigger ones, I recommend you make this wonderful patty pan squash soup with pesto.)

Small patty pan squashes don’t need to be peeled: they can just be cut into slices or sections, and steamed, sautéed, braised, grilled, or roasted. It is also traditional to stuff them, which I’m sure is lovely, but also a tad more involved than I’m ready for these days.

Making roasted patty pan squash

What I like to make with the patty pan squashes that cross my path is this warm-to-cold salad, a summer counterpart to one of my favorite winter salads: patty pan squash segments roasted till golden, al dente chickpeas, and a slick dressing of herbs and anchovies whizzed together with lemon peel and olive oil. I like to eat it on its own for a light yet filling lunch, but it can also be served as a side to roast chicken or grilled fish.

Any patty pan inspiration of your own to share?

Aug
06
2010

Ne pas manger de ce pain-là

Pain au levain

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.

This week’s expression is, “Ne pas manger de ce pain-là.”

Translated as, “not eating that kind of bread,” it means refusing to act in a way that goes against your values, steering clear of a situation or behavior that you think is beneath you.

Example: “Il faudrait que je fasse des ronds de jambe à la directrice pour obtenir une place pour ma fille, mais je ne mange pas de ce pain-là.” “I’d have to kowtow to the principal to get a spot for my daughter, but I don’t eat that kind of bread.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

Aug
03
2010

Olive Oil and Seed Crackers

If you’ve been on the fence about getting a pasta roller — either an attachment for your stand mixer or a hand-cranked one for your biceps — I may be able to offer the justification you were hoping for: a pasta roller proves handy for homemade crackers, too.

You see, to make good crackers, you need to roll the dough out thinly, for optimal snap, and evenly, so that they’ll bake in a uniform fashion, without doughy or burnt spots.

It’s a kitchen activity that ranks high on the fun-o-meter: rolling pasta or cracker dough never fails to remind me of my play-doh days, and I could spend all afternoon doing just that.

And as I learned from my talented friends at Hidden Kitchen (see their blog), a pasta roller is the ideal tool to achieve that. You’ll use the first roller only, the one that’s just two cylinders facing each other and rolling inward, and switch from narrow to narrower, exactly like you would for pasta, until you have a super thin strip of dough, ready to be baked.

It’s also a kitchen activity that ranks high on the fun-o-meter: rolling pasta or cracker dough never fails to remind me of my play-doh days, and I could spend all afternoon doing just that.

My cracker recipe is quite simple: regular flour and semolina flour (the latter provides a slightly more rustic texture), some seeds (I use sesame and poppy seeds), a bit of salt and olive oil, and enough water to bind into a dough that will be smooth but not tacky (or it will gunk up your pasta roller).

The crackers you get in return for your efforts are impeccably crisp — sturdy enough to scoop up stuff, but thin enough to shatter under your bite — and will remain so for a few weeks.

This is a good thing because the recipe makes quite a bit, but as long as you’re taking out the roller and preheating the oven, you might as well bake a good batch. And really, once you have them around I don’t think you’ll run out of things to eat them with: hummus, roasted eggplant and yogurt dip, anchoïade, muhammara, peacamole, cashew cheese, you get the idea.

The recipe is naturally open to variations, so you could add the spices and dried herbs of your choice, and possibly some grated hard cheese to the dough. If you decide to play around with the seeds, though, I recommend you stick to teeny ones, or they’ll get in the way of the thinning of the dough.

Sourdough starter note: If you maintain a sourdough starter, you can use up some of your excess starter in this recipe, according to the same conversion rule I’ve described before: here, I’ve been using 100 grams (3 1/2 ounces) 100%-hydration starter, and lowering the amount of flours to 125 grams (4.4 ounces) each and the water to 75 ml (5 tablespoons).

Aug
01
2010

Pattypan Squash Soup with Pesto

I’ve been a little hard on the patty pan squash, and for that I apologize.

About a year ago, I posted a recipe for Roasted Patty Pan Squash and Herbed Chickpeas, and wrote, “avoid patty pans that are larger than the palm of your hand: they will likely be watery and bland.”

I do stand by my statement that young and small patty pan squashes have more flavor, better texture, and undoubtedly more kawaii appeal than their bigger brothers, but that’s not to say the latter should be forsaken. Especially when you find one such specimen in your weekly vegetable basket, white and smooth as china.

Inspired by a string of chilly late summer days, I decided to make pattypan squash soup with it, a simple one, made with shallots and chicken stock in under thirty minutes. And to boost the flavor and tie it back to the season — fall, I’m not ready for you yet — I made pesto.

It’s a classic sort of pesto with basil and pine nuts, but instead of parmesan or pecorino I used ricotta salata, a pressed, dried and salted ricotta I’ve been playing with lately: it’s not a very meltable cheese, but I like its tang and milkiness, and it fares well in salads or in this condiment for my pattypan squash soup.

Because I love interactive dishes — especially soups, which can be a bit one-dimensional otherwise — I served the pesto in a jar at the table, for us to scoop into our bowls, stir, and watch the cream-white soup fleck with green. Add a hunk of fresh-baked pain au levain, and you’ve officially achieved dinner bliss.