For those of you who have not seen this classic on the big screen and for those of you who have and would like to see it again, the Rosendale Theatre is screening Easy Rider on Thursday, July 6, at 7PM.

The premier counterculture odyssey of the 1960s, Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper motorcycle cross country on their way to Mardi Gras. What they discover along the way is an America that is both beautiful and terrible. Jack Nicholson soon joins them on a journey that would both delight and disturb initial audiences and remains immensely powerful today.

Roger Ebert– “….someday it was inevitable that a great film would come along, utilizing the motorcycle genre, the same way the great Westerns suddenly made everyone realize they were a legitimate American art form, “Easy Rider” is the picture.”

Come see this 1960s counterculture classic on the big screen with full theatre sound to capture the glorious soundtrack.

Thursday, July 6, 2023
7:00PM
  $10/$6 Members

There are many reasons to plant specifically to attract birds, bees and butterflies in our gardens. All three are being severely effected by environmental factors that are decreasing their populations at alarming rates. Pesticide use and frequent mowing, over-zealous leaf removal in the Fall and an increasing number of invasive plants are severely changing the natural habitat that these creatures need to survive.

Pink Swamp Milkweed.

The plight of the Monarch butterfly is a prominent example of the consequences of man’s interference in the environment— the attention the depleted population of Monarch butterflies is garnering is an indication that many people other than gardeners have become proactive in their concern for these beautiful endangered creatures.

Monarchs cannot survive without milkweed. The Monarch caterpillars need milkweed plants (Asclepias spp.) to grow and develop, and female monarch butterflies only lay their eggs on milkweed. With shifting land management practices, we have lost much milkweed from the landscape. Planting milkweed is a great way to help other pollinators too, as milkweed provides nectar resources to a diverse suite of bees and butterflies.

Male Eastern Tiger Swallowtail on Privet.

Planting native nectar and host plants helps keep the eco-system healthy by attracting an assortment of pollinators, insects and birds. Both nectar plants for nourishment and host plants are important elements in a butterfly garden. They provide a site for the butterfly to lay her eggs and also provide a food source for the emerging caterpillar. Don’t forget a water element as well and be prepared for heavy munching on your host plants— I like to plant for the caterpillars and then place a few extra plants some distance away for my own enjoyment.

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail Caterpillar.

The early Spring blooms of a Spicebush will attract the Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly.

Because tiny Monarch caterpillars cannot travel far to find their own food, the female butterfly locates and lays her eggs on milkweed which is the only type of plant that the caterpillar can use as food. Most species of caterpillars are particular about the type of plants they can eat. If the egg was not placed on the correct plant, the caterpillar hatching from that egg will not survive. Many gardeners do not like to see plants in their gardens that have been chewed on by bugs. To avoid this, you may want to locate your butterfly host plants in areas that are not highly visible, but still a short distance from the butterfly nectar plants. If you do not provide host plants, you will have fewer butterflies.

Female Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Monarch Butterfly on Common Milkweed.

There are several types of milkweed to choose from. Common Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca will benefit native pollinators with its long and fragrant bloom time. The sweetly fragrant Rose Milkweed, Asclepias incarnata or Swamp Milkweed will grow in drier partial shade as well as sunny spots. Poke Milkweed, Asclepias exaltata—Tall Green Milkweed, Asclepias hirtella— Butterfly Weed, Asclepias tuberosa— Whorled Milkweed, Asclepias verticillata and Spider Milkweed, Asclepias viridis. All will grow in my zone 6 garden.

Fritillary Butterfly on Common Milkweed.

Hummingbirds, bees and various butterflies are attracted to Monarda, (Beebalm).

Fritillary Butterflies on Swamp Milkweed

When choosing plants you should keep a number of factors in mind; a succession of bloom times, and species which provide both nectar and food for the caterpillars. The following is a sampling of plants to use in either a wet or dry spot:

DRY
Anise Hyssop
Butterfly Weed
Blue Aster
Prairie Alumroot
Wild Petunia
Prairie Coreopsis
Pale Purple Coneflower
Button Blazing Star
Hairy Mountain Mint
Bradbury’s Monarda
Orange Coneflower
Ohio Spiderwort
Little Bluestem
Prairie Dropseed

WET
Rose Milkweed
Blue Wild Indigo
Purple Coneflower
Sneezeweed
Early Sunflower
Cardinal Flower
Great Blue Lobelia
Meadow Blazing Star
Wild Bergamot
Obedient Plant
Orange Coneflower
Palm Sedge
Switch Grass
Prairie Dropseed

Certain grasses will attract pollinators.

The listed plants will attract Hummingbirds, bees, an assortment of butterflies and many other pollinators to your garden. Find out which butterflies are common in your area, grow the plants the caterpillars like to eat, along with plants that adult butterflies feed on. Nectar and host plants should be in the same general area, but if you don’t want all of your perennial garden ravaged by caterpillars be sure to plant some perennials some distance away from your butterfly garden.

A Hummingbird perched on a branch near a pot planted with Monarda, Cardinal Flower and Butterfly Weed.

Remember— plant a variety of flowers incorporating different shapes and colors to attract more than one type of pollinator and to ensure continual blooms from Spring through Fall. Plant native plants whenever possible. Avoid modern hybrids; pollen, nectar and scent, (all essential for the survival of your garden habitat) can be lost in the hybridization process. Don’t even think about using pesticides— pick the unwanted pests off— pesticides will kill beneficial bugs too. Build a bee condo, or leave a dead branch or two to create a nesting habitat for bees. Plant in clumps so that pollinators can easily find their plant of choice. Provide bare ground and water and don’t forget your “host” plants, baby caterpillars need to feed on the foliage of their host plant.

A quick tutorial on starting milkweed indoors from seed:
Stratification needed— Seeds germinate after a period of cold, moist stratification. 60 days of cold, moist conditions.

1]  Calculate the date to start cold stratification pre-treatment. (Here in the Hudson Valley, May 15 is usually a safe time to put your babies in the ground). Rinse or complete a short soak. Pour seeds into a paper towel or a coffee filter or fine screen to drain.

2]  Arrange seed in a single layer and allow excess water to drain off.

3]  Fold seed loosely into the coffee filter or paper towel to allow for weekly spot checks— the seed and paper should be damp but not wet.

4]  A dry paper towel added to your labeled resealable bag will help to maintain even moisture while pulling excessive moisture away. Do not allow the stratification medium to completely dry out or stay soggy enough to rot.

5]  Place the sealed bag in your refrigerator— not freezer, and monitor weekly or as needed, until it is time to remove for sowing. Replace paper towel or coffee filter often; repeat from step 1.Once seed has completed the recommended stratification period or if excessively early sprouting occurs, plant immediately.

All photos (other than the featured image which was sourced from the internet) courtesy of the author.

Le Canard Enchaine, Kingston, NY: Simple, classic beef stock, yellow onions, baguette croutons, melted Gruyere cheese. Served with crusty French bread. $9.00

To be fair, she never said it was French onion soup. It was American, in the sense that it took shortcuts via technologies that no French chef could even imagine. However, it did have something in common with a French tradition that goes back to the great gourmet, Auguste Brillat-Savarin. One of his most brilliant “discoveries” was of something that doesn’t actually exist, despite his conviction that it did. His “osmazome” was to gastronomy what “phlogiston” and “the ether” were to the physical sciences: an invented term for something unprovable in order to explicate the inexplicable. In his book, The Physiology of Taste: Or, Transcendental Gastronomy, he wrote, in 1825:

Osmazome is that preeminently sapid part of meat which is soluble in cold water, and which differs completely from the extractive part of the meat, which is soluble only in water that is boiling.

It is osmazome which gives all their value to good soups; it is osmazome which, as it browns, makes the savory reddish tinge in sauces and the crisp coating on roasted meat, finally it is from the osmazome that comes the special tangy juices of venison and game.

Brillat-Savarin’s “science” was basically wishful thinking, but it foreshadowed two actual scientific discoveries. The Maillard Reaction (discovered in 1910, by Louis Camille Maillard), is the interaction of proteins and carbohydrates that, when heated, create a host of rich flavoring compounds. It provides the tasty browning of roasted meats, coffee beans, and other foods. This browning is often mistakenly called “caramelization,” which a different process (one that doesn’t involve proteins). The other was umami (discovered in 1908, by Kikunae Ikeda), the savory taste, first isolated from seaweed, that was only proven to be the fifth basic taste in 2001.

Chops Grille, Kingston, NY: Deep rich beef stock, red onions, deglazed with dry sherry and burgundy for a slightly-tart finish, sourdough croutons topped with cheddar cheese, and a garnish of finely-minced parsley. $7.00

What my mother’s bouillon cubes had, in spades, was umami. It got it, in small part, from beef—but mostly from hydrolyzed vegetable protein, which is basically an industrialized version of soy sauce. The reason those little cubes and soy sauce make things so satisfying is they are loaded with glutamates. Think MSG. Think Accent. This is a naturally-occurring compound is found in cheeses, meats, mushrooms, tomatoes, and many of the other foodstuffs we love. Osmazome it may not be, but tasty it certainly is.

If French cooks don’t get their umami fix from little silver-wrapped cubes, where do they get it? From stock. Meaty soup bones, slowly roasted with mire poix (two parts onion, one part each of carrots and celery). Once these are nicely browned, they are slowly simmered in water until all of their flavors—proteins, minerals, vitamins, Maillard-produced compounds, and glutamates—are dissolved in the stock. Stock is the foundation of French cooking, and it is practically everything in French onion soup.

Sal’s Place, Highland, NY: Nice stock, not too salty, topped with easy-to-spoon mozzarella, and garnished with paprika—which gives the fat a lovely reddish color. $4.99

Home cooks, in France, don’t always use stock (stock takes a lot of time, and is important enough to justify its production in professional kitchens); they might use only water. Either way, the thinly-sliced onions (which are naturally rich in soluble glutamates) are slowly cooked in butter, with a little flour, until they are uniformly golden, being careful not to let them get brown (and bitter). Sometimes the onions are strained out of the finished soup, which makes for a more refined version of the soup than we see in American restaurants.

We’re accustomed to little crocks of full-flavored soup, filled with succulent slivers of onion, usually topped with a large crouton and smothered in melted cheese, served bubbling-hot from the broiler. Americans love melted cheese (our versions of Mexican dishes are almost always smothered in cheese—which is not at all they way they’re served in Mexico). Our familiar French Onion Soup, called “Soupe à la Oignon Gratinée,” is made that way in France, too, but their cheesy version is sometimes done in a slightly different fashion.

The Tavern at the Beekman Arms, Rhinebeck, NY: Rich, salty stock, yellow onions topped with a mixture of Swiss and Mozzarella which was stretchy, but not rubbery. Garnished with parsley, and accompanied by homemade bread studded with garlic. $8.00

“Soupe à la Oignon Fromage” isn’t served in individual crocks, and doesn’t go under the broiler. Madame E. Sainte-Ange’s La Bonne Cuisine—a cookbook that, in French households, is as familiar as The Joy of Cooking or The Betty Crocker Cookbook are in the U.S.—she writes:

To obtain the stringiness that pleases the lovers of this soup so much, you must have good Gruyere cheese, fresh and with a high fat content. Grate it, or cut it in little pieces as thin as a sheet of paper. If it is too thick, it will not melt well and will require much more time. Arrange one-third of the baguette rounds in the bottom of the tureen. Cover them with one-third of the cheese, about 1 good tablespoon, and add a little pepper. Make a second layer of rounds and cheese without omitting the pepper; then a third, final layer. In all, 3 good tablespoons of cheese.

Pour the onion bouillon into the tureen (either straining it or not). Cover with a tight-fitting lid. Leave it in a low oven for a few minutes. Serve.

Stonehedge, West Park, NY: A lot of bread and beautifully-browned onions, beefy stock. Stonehedges’ version was the only soup we tried that was not served in the typical brown-lipped crock. Topped with Swiss, and accompanied by small warm rolls. Dinner only. $6.00

I haven’t tried la Sainte-Ange’s non-gratinéed version, but I suspect the bread would dissolve, thickening the soup, and the threads of cheese, distributed throughout the soup (rather than just on top) would make a dish whose texture resembles Chinese Eggdrop Soup. Cool weather—soup season—is almost here; I’m looking forward to a kitchen redolent of roasted mire poix, well-browned beef bones, and golden buttery onions.

——

French Onion Soup can be found anywhere: from dive bars to white tablecloth joints, from hipster hang-outs to classic French bistros. Over the course of three weeks, two of us slurped a bunch of them, and (almost) never tired of them.

Foster’s Coach House, Rhinebeck, NY: Distinctly beefy stock, yellow onions, topped with a slice of bread and a slab of melted Swiss so large it required a knife and fork. $6.00

It’s not possible to point out if one crock contained the best—or the worst—French Onion Soup in the Hudson Valley. After all, we could never sample ALL of the potential candidates—we could easily have missed the winning (or losing) candidate. Besides, even though they’re all the same dish, their recipes, preparation, and service style are all different. Plus, there are so many subjective judgments involved: some people want more cheese than others; some don’t want to detect any unwarranted spiciness, while others like the surprise of a bit of zing; some want a lot of onions or bread, some not so much; still others come to the table with preconceived notions of their ideal soup, and are pleased or disappointed when reality doesn’t match it. And then there’s the influence of the restaurant’s ambiance and reputation.

These are all reasons why I would never want to be a restaurant critic (and why I take the recommendations of other critics with a shaker of proverbial salt).

The Anchor, Kingston, NY: Spicy beef stock, brightly seasoned with thyme and black pepper, yellow onions, topped with large croutons, a slice of Swiss cheese, a sprinkling of Parmesan, and a garnish of chopped scallions. $6.00

The best we could do was to decide if our sampled soups met (or didn’t meet) our expectations. It would not be fair for us to say which restaurant’s soup failed to live up to our imaginary ideal. Anyone can have an off day, and a disappointing soup might not be typical of the restaurant’s usual fare. However, we can say, without hesitation, that we were both surprised and delighted by our soup experience at The Anchor, in Kingston.

Featured Image: French Onion Soup from The Anchor in Kingston, NY. All photographs by the author.

Gary Allen’s most recent book is Can It!: The Pleasures and Perils of Preserving Foods, his third book from Reaktion. You can find more of his speculations about things he has been known to (but really shouldn’t) put in his mouth — his own foot being a prime example of the latter — on his website:  onthetable​.us  

Thanks to Hurricane Sandy, my veggie garden now gets many more hours of sunlight and my tomato production has easily increased three-fold. Fully a third of the plot is given to the growing of different varieties of heirloom tomatoes. This year I tried Amish Paste (a plum tomato), Brandywine and Purple Cherokee. Plus a few others, whose names I now forget.

Purple Cherokee et.al.

Faced with an overabundance of these delectables, tomato salads and open faced tomato sandwiches (though satisfying to the palate) have became ordinary fare. Requiring a challenge, tomato pie seemed the necessary option. Therefore, apart from the madness of firing up the oven in midsummer (with only a ceiling fan), I began my quest to create my own variation of tomato pie. Having plenty of peppers and herbs in the garden and being a great lover of cheese, it necessarily leans towards Italy.

Amish Paste Heirlooms

After a little experimenting, I decided that a single crust pie with three kinds of Italian cheese, two kinds of tomatoes (2 Purple Cherokee and 3 Amish Paste), a single incendiary pepper (you can opt for a milder pepper if you wish), plus some lovely fresh herbs would meet my expectations.

Here’s the recipe:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Using your favorite pie crust recipe, line a 9” pie plate (I prefer glass). Flute the top edge and pierce the bottom and side surfaces lightly, but many times, with a fork. Then chill it in the fridge for about 20 minutes (this keeps it from slumping in the pie plate while baking). Sprinkle about 2 tablespoons of grated Pecorino Romano cheese on the bottom and pop it in the oven until it turns a light golden brown (about 10 mins., less if your oven runs hot). Remove and cool while you make the filling.

Ingredients

4–5 fresh tomatoes sliced in ¼” rounds. Use meaty home-grown or farm stand tomatoes—if store bought, use plum tomatoes (and you’ll need 6 or 7, as they are smaller). Don’t use the supermarket vine tomatoes, they’re too watery. I leave the skin on—more fiber, less work.

1 small –medium sized hot or mild pepper (your choice), sliced into thin rounds, seeds removed.

4 tablespoons grated Pecorino Romano cheese.

½ pound sliced provolone cheese. You won’t use it all, but you will probably eat the leftovers while assembling the pie.

1/3  pound of good mozzarella cheese (not the rubbery stuff in the supermarket dairy aisle—go to a good Italian deli and buy a half-pound cheese). Slice in ¼” rounds. If you can’t get good mozzarella, then use the whole ½ pound of provolone instead.

¼ cup chopped fresh Basil

6 twigs of fresh oregano. Strip the leaves off the twigs before use. Of course you may use dried oregano, but the dried herb is stronger, so use about a teaspoon and a half (unless you really like oregano). You can also use sweet marjoram.

1 tablespoon fresh squeezed lemon juice.

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Paper towels

Method

Layer the sliced tomatoes in a colander set on a large plate and sprinkle each layer with salt. This will cause the tomatoes to sweat, drawing out the excess water. Let sit for about 15 minutes—or more, to allow this process.

Line the bottom of the cooled, precooked pie crust with a layer of provolone cheese. Next, dab the tomato slices (both sides) dry with paper towels to remove the water and most of the salt. Place one layer over the sliced cheese already in the pie crust. Sprinkle with some of the herbs, a little ground black pepper and a new thin layer of provolone. Repeat this combination until you’ve used all the sliced tomatoes, herbs and provolone.

Top with a layer of the sliced hot or sweet peppers and sprinkle with the lemon juice. Use the mozzarella for the final layer and then sprinkle on the remaining 2 tablespoons of grated Pecorino Romano cheese. Turn the oven up to 375 and bake for about 30–35 minutes.

When the top of the pie is bubbly and beginning to brown, remove. If you fear burning the fluted crust you can cover it with strips of aluminum foil. Let it sit awhile (about an hour) to cool and congeal before cutting. Really, it shouldn’t be served piping hot but  lukewarm. The first slice will likely be a mess (but still delicious). Be the good host and save that piece for yourself and give your guests the “pretty” slices. I serve with a fresh cucumber salad and then some cold melon. It tastes very good the next day as well but again, be sure to serve it at room temperature.

Enjoy!

It’s the Chinese name for China. It means “middle kingdom,” because they regarded themselves as a bit of civilization at the center of the world, surrounded by barbarians. Since they created one of the world’s greatest cuisines, in company with France and Italy, they’ve earned the right to their jingoistic pride. Certainly, the food served by a zillion run-of-the-mill take-out places is barbaric when compared with that which can be found in some of the larger urban Chinatowns.

Having had a life-long love affair with big city Chinatowns—New York, Chicago and San Francisco—I miss having access to the sort of restaurants and ingredients that are not easy to find in other places. Like where I live now.

Fortunately, Albany is not far away… and it’s possible to rekindle that old love affair whenever I want. Just off Exit Two of the Northway (I-87, for the numerically inclined) is Hong Kong Bakery. It’s at 8 Wolf Road, just off of Central Avenue. I haven’t even tried the dishes on their menu… because it’s impossible for me to get past the selection of dimsum.

assorted dimsum

Far too often, after ordering a familiar dish—like pork potstickers—I get thick dough wrapped around some fine-grained forcemeat. They may be tasty, in a pinch, that is if I’m feeling desperate. But it’s nothing like the real thing.

At the highest levels of Chinese gastronomy, texture is the defining characteristic. The dimsum at Hong Kong Bakery are textural treasures. Har Gow, shrimp dumplings, are not filled with ground shrimp forcemeat, the sort that is extended with cheaper ingredients. Biting into one, whole shrimp provide what an Italian would call an al dente experience. The simple soy sauce that accompanies it is of excellent quality… it’s good, but it is not the point. The juicy burst of pure ocean flavor of the dumpling itself is the real deal.

Har Gow — shrimp dumplings

Steamed dimsum are not wrapped in wheat flour dough… they arrive in impossibly thin transparent rice noodle. The fillings—roast duck, chunky pork, beef shortribs, chickenfeet, shrimp and spinach—each have their own textures and flavors. Speaking of rice noodles… rolled sheets of delicate translucent noodle come drizzled with a simple soy sauce. That might sound simple, maybe bland, but the taste/texture combination is far from ordinary. The rice rolls come with several fillings—shrimp, roast pork or duck, beef, scallions, and crispy rice. I plan to try them all (‘though possibly not at one sitting).

rice noodles

Fried dimsum include the potstickers mentioned above… but they’re nothing like the ones you might find in a neighborhood take-out joint. They also have dumplings filled with shrimp and chive, vegetables or vegetable with beancurd skin, taro, roast pork. One my favorite fried items is the Turnip Cake. It’s tasty on its own, but it comes with a sweet-savory dipping sauce that might be hoisin and oyster sauce (either that, or it’s the best quality oyster sauce I ever had).

pot stickers (gyoza)

Eventually, I will work my way—happily—through everything on their menu.

I mention Hong Kong Bakery first because I highly recommend you stop there before going a few blocks further, to the Asian Supermarket (1245 Central Avenue). Whatever you do, don’t go here hungry. You will buy far too much of everything (and “everything” is something of an understatement).

A shopper navigating one of 8 massive aisles.

Aisle after aisle of every imaginable Asian foodstuff—from China, India, Japan, Thailand, the Philippines, Indonesia, and probably more (the selection is overwhelming). Meats, vegetables, mushrooms, and fresh seafood that you’ll never see in a supermarket. An entire case of sausages from China and southeast Asia. Pork belly. Chicken feet. Whole black-skinned silky chickens. Buns and dumplings and shumai of every description. An entire row of dried noodles. Eggs from ducks, chickens and quail. Fifty or more types of soy sauce. Hundreds of kinds of tea. An insane number of Japanese snacks, in flavors of which no westerner could ever dream. Seafood—much of it still alive—creates views and aromas that are not for the squeamish. But, if you happen to have a recipe for frog or turtle or conch or snails or crayfish, you’ll overlook a shopping experience that is nothing like the typical sterility of a shopping center supermarket.

At the front of the giant store, you can get hot food, ready to go: steamed buns, roast pork, glossy roasted ducks, fried crabs… just in case your dimsum satiety has passed, and you’re feeling a bit peckish. Not all of these treats are destined to make it home. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ripped into them in the parking lot.

Here’s a small album of photos taken in the market:

bok choy

bamboo shoots

rambutans

garam masala (whole)

Gary Allen’s most recent book is Sauces Reconsidered: Aprés Escoffier, a volume in Rowman & Littlefield Studies in Food and Gastronomy. You can find more of his speculations about things he has been known to (but really shouldn’t) put in his mouth — his own foot being a prime example of the latter — on his website: onthetable​.us

Everyone knows the answer, right? It’s that fluid substance we pour over our food to make it taste better.

Naturally, the answer is a bit more complicated (or this book could be reduced to just those last fourteen words) and poses some interesting questions. For example, some of those “fluid substances” are by-products of the cooking process that serve to reinforce the flavor of the main ingredient (jus and pan gravy are familiar examples) while others are made separately and provide a culinary counterpoint to the primary ingredient. The latter include, among others, the marinara that coats a pizza, the hollandaise atop eggs benedict, and a vast array of condiments freshly prepared or commercially-made—from mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise, to Worcestershire, and sriracha.

marinara sauce-image courtesy of ForknPlate

Then there is the question of viscosity. How much viscosity is too much? When does a sauce cease to be a sauce and become better described as a paste? And, what if an ingredient, like Chinese sesame paste—which is more solid than Middle Eastern tahini—is thinned with other, more liquid ingredients to make something that is clearly sauce-like? Does that make it a kind of proto sauce?

Still more issues add complexity to the discussion.

How does the intended usage of one of these flavorful liquids affect its position in a hierarchy of sauces? Where do we even place the sauce relative to other foodstuffs? Do we pool it under, pour it over, mix it thoroughly throughout, serve it on the side (in condiment bottles or little bowls of dipping liquid), or even encapsulate it inside (like the agar-covered pearls of molecular gastronomy or Shanghai-style soup dumplings)?

So, we’ve already begun to probe the variables that delineate possible categories for sauces, the rude beginnings of a kind of taxonomy. Many of our decisions will place individual sauces somewhere on a continuous spectrum of sauces, rarely all one form or another.

Attempting to force an ingredient into one of two categories (sauce or nonsauce) is almost as useless as separating the entire animal kingdom into male and female. While that does provide one kind of distinction, it tells us very little about individual species and how they relate to one another. Nature, including the nature of sauces, is not so easily crammed into one cubbyhole or another.

Needless to say, we are not the first to have tried to make sense of the world of sauces—some have had more success than others. There is nothing completely new under the sun (a maxim that is, itself, an example). This book attempts to build on previous efforts, and possibly to create a more universal taxonomy of sauces. If, like Isaac Newton, we are to see farther by standing on the shoulders of giants—a notion that he borrowed from a series of giants that goes all the way back to the Roman poet Lucan—then we must begin with the sauces and the sauce classifications of the past. It remains to be seen if—after visiting Westminster Abbey and literally standing upon the shoulders (and the rest of what remains) of Isaac Newton—our view has been much enhanced by the experience.

Chapter 8: Time for a Change

For a century, Escoffier’s system of Mother and daughter sauces has been the standard for understanding the otherwise chaotic nature of, and connections between, sauces.

Auguste Escoffier — image courtesy of bbc.co.uk

However, when we look at the hierarchy of sauces created by Escoffier (and Carême before him), a few drawbacks present themselves. First, we notice that almost all of the mother sauces share a common feature—they are thickened with flour. Hollandaise is the only exception. A larger issue is that very few people today use sauces like those (even French chefs employ a range of sauces that Escoffier could never have imagined). Today’s kitchens are much more cosmopolitan than those of a century ago.

It is true that French chefs have always explored the cuisines of other cultures, but they generally adopted one ingredient or another, which were then employed in a classically French manner. Something labeled “Florentine” would not be recognizable to a citizen of Firenze; it would merely be a French dish that contains spinach. Dishes served à la Japonaise would seem even more bizarre in Tokyo (they might be a salad containing artichokes, mussels, potatoes, and/or truffles). The descriptor, à la Japonaise, is also applied to a bombe of peach ice cream. The only remotely Japanese thing about the latter was that the dessert had a tea-scented filling.

fish sauces — image by thaifoodandtravel.com

Today’s chefs—and many home cooks—think nothing of creating entirely new sauces that could include chile pastes, like Korean gochujiang or Peruvian ají amarillo; or fish sauces, like Vietnamese pla ra or British anchovy essence. They thicken their sauces not just with reduced cream or starchy roux, but with ground nuts and seeds, or they purée exotic fruits and vegetables. We routinely incorporate ingredients and techniques—from every far-flung corner of the world, and every culture and every time period—never imagined by classically-trained French chefs.

Our palates are not only more eclectic, we have a desire for authenticity in our food (even if we’re not sure what “authentic” really means). We don’t want a French dish that merely nods at another culture’s culinary traditions; we want the real thing.

But there is another reason his list of mother sauces seems inadequate. We live in a more technological world, one in which we expect at least the trappings of a scientific approach. Escoffier’s system reflects the thinking of a different century, a different millennium. We may not always be logical in our thinking about food, but we expect an approach that is more substantial than four starches and that lonely hollandaise.

How, for example, would Escoffier’s taxonomy categorize the creations of molecular gastronomy? While he created a number of bottled sauces, for use in the home, Escoffier’s system isn’t flexible enough to address our broadened tastes. Escoffier, like Carême before him, had an architect’s desire to control the experience of his clients. That kind of ego seems out of place when we think nothing of having BBQ sauce, honey-mustard, ketchup, piri piri, a couple of soy sauces, sriracha, Tabasco, or Worcestershire on our tables—maybe at the same time.

Stubbs BBQ Sauces — image courtesy of howtoshopforfree.net

Clearly, a completely different approach is required. It must be flexible enough to incorporate any sauce, from any part of the world that exists now, has ever existed, or ever will exist. It must be able to address any sauce, regardless of the unusualness of its ingredients. It needs to be logical, and it needs to be able to function without having to build on historical sauce precedents—yet be able to seamlessly accommodate any of those pre-existing sauces.

There may be other ways to accomplish that goal, but the simplest that comes to mind is one based on the physical structures of the sauces. To that end, let us consider five new mother sauce categories (plus a hybrid category, Composites, for sauces that merge two or more of the original five).

Appropriately enough, the first of the solutions to our self-imposed task is, in fact… solutions.

[excerpts from Sauces Reconsidered: Aprés Escoffier, 
Rowan & Littlefield, February 2019]

Featured Image: Hollandaise sauce over asparagas: image by Betty Crocker Kitchens

Gary Allen’s most recent book is Sauces Reconsidered: Aprés Escoffier, a volume in Rowman & Littlefield Studies in Food and Gastronomy. You can find more of his speculations about things he has been known to (but really shouldn’t) put in his mouth — his own foot being a prime example of the latter — on his website: onthetable​.us

Gary;s found oyster shell

I shouldn’t have been surprised, as oysters have been popular in the Hudson Valley for a very long time. Some twenty years ago, I spoke with one of the archaeologists who were doing exploratory digs at Kingston’s Senate House. He told me that thousands of barrels of oysters were shipped up the river from New York harbor, as early as the early Dutch period, and that some of those oysters were as large as a foot in length. New York City was once the capital of oyster fisheries in the US, and oyster houses could be found on nearly every block. Alas, pollution has killed the oyster industry on lower Manhattan, but Long Island Sound still produces lovely briny oysters—‘though no one allows them to live long enough to reach the gargantuan sizes of the past. Most oysters are harvested when they’re a little over two years old.

Connecticut Bluepoints

Curiously enough, since oysters are filter feeders, there are plans to re-introduce them to New York harbor. They may actually begin to clean up the very pollution that ruined the industry a century ago. We might consider waiting a few decades before eating any of them though!

Wellfleets

Recently, oysters (from places a bit farther way from Manhattan) have regained some of their lost popularity… in part, I suspect, because we diners have become more aware of local differences in foods, their terroir. Just like wine, an oyster’s flavor is a direct result of the unique characteristics of its environment, perhaps even more so. How cold and salty the water is, how much and what kind of algae (oyster food) grows there, how long the oyster is bedded there—all these factors affect the taste of the oyster that winds up on a bed of crushed ice. Generally speaking, oysters that live their lives in warm waters (Chesapeake bay and south) grow faster; they get to feed for more months of the year. That leads to plump, but milder-tasting flesh. Northern oysters tend to be smaller, brinier, and—to my taste at least—more desirable when served raw. I’m particularly fond of the ones from Eastern Canadian waters (Crassostrea virginica, the same species as the famous Wellfleets) and from Washington’s Hood Canal (Ostrea lurida expansa, such as Hama Hamas). The big eastern oysters, such as those from the Gulf of Mexico, are ideally suited to frying. It’s no accident that Oyster Po-boys originated in New Orleans. There are even bigger oysters… such as the Giant Pacific Oyster (Crassostrea angulata), but they’re used primarily for making oyster sauce.

Assorted selection

The “oysters” that create pearls are not even oysters or, at least, edible oysters—though they are vaguely similar. Pearls form in two genera of “oysters:” Pinctada and Pteria, that are not in the same family as edible oysters. Some pearls are even found in freshwater mussels that are even further, taxonomically, from delectable oysters. Pearls are OK—but, frankly, I’m only interested in the oysters I can eat—and, easy as it is to digress into matters biological, I’ll gladly get back to the Hudson Valley’s culinary connection to these bivalves.

hama-hama

Maria Sanders van Rensselaer ‘s hand-written recipe book (she lived from 1749 to 1830) featured this dish: “To stew oysters. Take 1 pint of oysters, set them over a fire in their own liquor with a glass of wine, a lump of butter, some salt, pepper and mace. Let them stew gently.” When reading old recipes, we have to expect a certain vagueness that doesn’t correspond to modern recipe formats—or kitchen equipment.

South Salem resident Peter Rose has made it her life’s work to study Dutch cookery in the Hudson Valley. She’s written nine books on the subject. She also co-curated an exhibit at the Albany Institute of History and Art: “Matters of Taste, Food and Drink in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Art and Life.” The show included objects (some of which came from New Paltz’s Huguenot Street) and artworks from Holland’s greatest period of still-life painting. In the show’s catalogue, Rose included this recipe (which I’ve slightly modernized):

Baked Oysters

Serves 4 as an appetizer

Ingredients

¼ cup unseasoned bread-crumbs (dry or made from stale bread)
1/8 tsp. ground mace
1/8 tsp. black pepper
1 pint shucked oysters with their liquor
4 Tbsp. sweet butter
Lemon wedges for garnish

Method

• Preheat oven to 350°F.

• Generously butter a 1-quart souffle dish or small deep casserole.
• Combine bread-crumbs and spices.
• Place oysters in the dish, one layer thick, topped with a thin layer of the bread-crumb mixture and dot with butter. Repeat this layering, finishing with the last of the bread-crumbs and butter.
• Bake until lightly browned and bubbly, about 40 minutes.
• Serve with a crusty roll and lemon wedge.

Gary Allen’s most recent book is Can It!: The Pleasures and Perils of Preserving Foods, his third book from Reaktion. You can find more of his speculations about things he has been known to (but really shouldn’t) put in his mouth — his own foot being a prime example of the latter — on his website:  onthetable​.us  

On a busy weekend night, seated at a banquet table near their swinging kitchen doors, you may get the opportunity to glimpse the chefs hard at work behind the line, meticulously preparing and sending out plate after plate of Gianni Scappin’s unique take on rustic Italian cuisine: steaming plates of bucatini carbonara with guanciale and cauliflower; spring pea and ricotta bruschetta laced with fresh mint; impossibly fresh flounder, perched atop truffled parsnip puree and roasted Brussels sprouts.

The bar crowd is buzzing as well, with savvy bartenders churning out classic, well-made Manhattans and Martinis, tailor-made to the customer’s preference, in addition to the restaurant’s signature Ginger Margaritas and Burnt Venetians (a snappy, refreshing mixture of Tito’s handmade vodka, Aperol, lemon, and prosecco). With an undeniably addictive combination of masterfully prepared Italian dishes and impeccable, prompt service, it is no wonder Market St. is packed every night of the week.

Opened in 2012 by Chef Gianni Scappin and Lois Freedman, Market St. is the pair’s second venture (after it’s sister restaurant Cucina in Woodstock, NY) into offering the area’s diners a chance to experience the combination of authentic Italian flavors and seasonal Hudson Valley ingredients. Hailing from Marostica, a town in northern Italy’s Veneto region, Chef Scappin pays homage to the culinary values of his home country by combining seasonal ingredients with high-quality Italian products to create honest, harmonious flavors: “As much as possible we try to use local ingredients and truly follow the farm-to-table philosophy—which is pretty much how Italy has been doing it for centuries.”

Chef Gianni Scappin

According to Chef Scappin, the Hudson Valley’s awareness of the importance of cooking with seasonal produce is evolving in a positive way. Local farms are gaining popularity, and people have better access to what the land has to offer. And you can be sure that if a local farm is growing it, Market St. is serving it. A quick glance at their menu will assure you that your food is being grown or raised locally, as they make it a point to proudly feature Hudson Valley farms such as Sky Farm, Feather Ridge Farm, Hudson Valley Cattle Company, and Heermance Farm beneath descriptions of their seasonal dishes. This conviviality between farms and restaurant reflects a respect both for where the products come from and for the ingredients themselves.

Allowing ingredients to speak on their own, and not trying to obscure their flavors with excessive technique, is a tenet of Italian cooking continued at Market St. And with a wonderful array of seasonal items to choose from, not to mention the myriad mushrooms and edible plants one can forage from early spring into late fall, the Hudson Valley seems the optimal location to explore a farm-to-table philosophy.

Chef de Cuisine at Market St. Ross Markhart describes his perspective on the local food scene as having been shaped by his transition from growing up on the west coast to discovering the Hudson Valley during culinary school: “In California, there were always great markets with wonderful produce—because anything can grow at anytime in southern California—but what was missing was a real appreciation for seasonal items. Here in the Hudson Valley, there is a great anticipation for ingredients as their respective season slowly approaches, this being especially true when coming out of the dearth of winter into the blossoming of spring.” Ramps, morels, and fiddlehead ferns are just a few locally-foraged ingredients that Market St. incorporates into its cuisine. And these particular items, which come about in early spring, are only “harbingers of the bounty that is still to come” in summer and in fall, Markhart adds enthusiastically. Classic Italian dishes, such as Market St.’s Neapolitan-style pizza or a great local pork chop, serve as canvases upon which to showcase the cherished and temporal flavors of native flora.

Chef Scappin’s Italian roots shine not only through Market St.’s unique ingredient-focused approach, but additionally through the hospitable environment that the staff manages to create. Luciano Valdivia, General Manager of Market St., posits that “in the restaurant industry, ‘hospitality’ is often given lip service, but is unfortunately rarely focused on. It’s not just about taking orders and anticipating people’s needs, but also about creating an environment where people feel welcome, like they are a part of our family.” If you are a regular diner at Market St., you have surely experienced the kind of service that Valdivia is speaking of. The restaurant makes it their business to remember and respect the preferences of every familiar face—whether you like ice on the side with your glass of Pinot Grigio, or if you prefer your salmon cooked just north of medium-rare, you can be certain that your wishes will not only be recalled by the attentive staff, but that they will most likely remember them before you have a chance to yourself. “As hosts, we strive every day to consistently deliver what the customer both wants and expects, without them always having to communicate it,” says Valdivia. Like family, the customers at Market St. are expected—and encouraged—to treat the restaurant like a home away from home: a place where they can come to relax, enjoy their favorite dish, and leave their stresses behind.

Market St.’s philosophy on food and hospitality is infectious, and is surely emblematic of the greater Hudson Valley’s motion toward a slower, more thoughtful approach on cuisine. As appreciation for local farms and their products augments, the more restaurant owners must reevaluate their relationship with, and respect for, the inherent simplicity and beauty of seasonal ingredients. This sort of genuine experience that Market St. provides its diners presumes a long lifespan for the establishment, one that Valdivia expressly anticipates: “If the children that come in today with their parents bring their own kids to Market St. in the future, I will feel like we have created something that is indeed very special.” And what Chef Scappin and his team have created is, admittedly, already extremely special. Market St. is a place where Old World values come to shine in a New World setting—and that is a philosophy that can stand the test of time.

Photographs by Keith Ferris