Sausage (18 page)
Authors: Victoria Wise
Cajun Rémoulade
The journey of French rémoulade sauce, a classic mustardy mayonnaise with herbs, capers, and gherkins, across the Atlantic Ocean to Acadia (now eastern Quebec), the Maritime provinces, parts of New England, and eventually on to the American South is a culinary story worth telling. In the early 1600s, the first French arrived in Acadia and took up a life of farming crops and raising livestock. A century and a half later, many descendants of those early Acadians were forced from their northern homes by the British, eventually winding up in South Carolina, Georgia, and Louisiana. Those who settled in Louisiana soon came to be called Cajuns, as did their language, a lilting patois unique to the area but universally understood in their joyous music.
And rémoulade? Unfortunately, there is no accessible literature that describes how the sauce was interpreted on Acadian tables. However, as it wended its way to Louisiana, via the American Northeast and the French Indies, it underwent a gastronomic evolution, becoming more spirited with additions of minced bell pepper and celery, tomato paste, sometimes Worcestershire sauce, horseradish, and especially Louisiana’s own feisty Tabasco sauce. Here is my interpretation of that well-traveled sauce, now a
Cajun rémoulade, served on a New Orleans plate with crab cakes and Creole sausage.
SERVES 6 TO 8
Rémoulade
¾ cup mayonnaise
1½ tablespoons Dijon mustard
1½ teaspoons finely chopped scallion, light green tops only
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
½ teaspoon capers
4 cornichons, finely chopped
4 shakes Tabasco or other Louisiana hot sauce
Crab Cakes
¾ pound fresh or frozen and thawed crabmeat, picked over for shell fragments
1 tablespoon finely chopped red bell pepper
2 teaspoons finely chopped poblano or jalapeño chile or green bell pepper
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 teaspoon finely chopped shallot
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon kosher salt
1 large egg
1½ cups
fresh bread crumbs
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, or as needed, for frying the sausage
¾ pound
Creole Sausage
, formed into 1¼-inch balls
4 tablespoons butter or
ghee
, for frying the crab cakes
1½ cups watercress leaves and tender stems, preferably hydroponic (for more on hydroponic watercress, see recipe for
Pork and Water Chestnut Sausage Wontons
)
To make the rémoulade, combine the mayonnaise, mustard, scallion, parsley, capers, cornichons, and hot sauce in a small bowl and whisk to mix. Use right away, or cover and refrigerate for up to 3 days.
To make the crab cakes, place the crabmeat, red bell pepper, chile, parsley, shallot, mustard, lemon juice, salt, egg, and ½ cup of the bread crumbs in a medium bowl, and mix gently with your hands until thoroughly blended. Divide the mixture into 8 equal portions, and pat each portion into a cake about 2 inches in diameter. Spread the remaining 1 cup bread crumbs on a plate. Coat each patty on both sides with the bread crumbs, pressing them to adhere. Place the patties on a plate, cover with plastic wrap, and set aside in the refrigerator to firm for at least 30 minutes or up to several hours.
To cook the sausage, heat the 1 tablespoon oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add as many sausage balls as will fit without crowding and sauté, turning 3 or 4 times, until browned all around and just cooked through, about 8 minutes. Transfer to a plate and set aside in a warm place. If necessary, continue with another round, adding more oil to the pan if needed.
To cook the crab cakes, melt the butter in a second large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add as many crab cakes as will fit without crowding and fry, turning once, until golden and crisp on both sides, about 8 minutes total. If necessary, continue with another round.
To serve, spread the watercress on individual plates or a platter. Set the crab cakes on top and garnish each cake with a dollop of rémoulade. Arrange the sausage balls next to the crab cakes. Pass the remaining rémoulade at the table.
Paella is one of the great composed rice dishes of the world. Many regions in Spain boast of serving the “finest” rendition, but Valencia, its original home, claims the blue ribbon. Many tourist guides acquiesce. Located close by the sea, the city provides its cooks with a daily supply of fresh seafood. Squid, which blackens the rice with its ink, and mussels are abundant and have become key elements in
paella valenciana
, along with snails and green beans. That repertoire has been expanded to include a selection of chicken or rabbit pieces; small sausages; other shellfish, such as shrimp, crayfish, or cockles; and other vegetables, such as red bell pepper or artichoke, though not all at once. I like to use shrimp in the shell, but if you don’t think your guests will want to peel their own shrimp, you can cook them as directed, then peel them before returning them to the pan.
Paella is traditionally cooked over a charcoal fire in a large, wide, two-handled shallow pan called a
paellera.
As is common in many Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cultures in which dishes, such as shish kebab and gyros, are cooked over an open fire, the paella cooks are traditionally men because the men own fire. Nowadays, the
paellera
is more often used indoors, and women as well as men cook the dish. It is always a festive offering, worthy of a get-together of any size, indoors or out. No matter who is cooking, the key to a successful paella is the rice. It must be Spanish or Italian short grain.
SERVES 6
24 baby artichokes (about 2 pounds)
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more as needed
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 pound large shrimp, preferably in the shell
1 pound
Chorizo
3 cups Spanish or Italian short-grain white rice
6 cups water, plus more as needed
2 teaspoons kosher salt
Large pinch of saffron threads
Trim off the stems from the artichokes flush with the bottom, and then pull away their outer leaves down to the inner yellow ones. Cut off the top of each artichoke down to the yellow part. Cut each artichoke in half lengthwise.
In a large sauté pan, heat the 3 tablespoons oil over medium heat. Add the artichokes and garlic and sauté, turning the artichokes often, until they are almost tender but still a little crunchy, about 5 minutes. Transfer to a plate and set aside in a warm place.
Add the shrimp, increase the heat to medium-high, and sauté until just turning pink and curling up, about 5 minutes. (Add more oil if necessary to keep them from burning.) Transfer to the plate with the artichokes.
Add the sausage and sauté, stirring from time to time to break it into large clumps, until firm, about 5 minutes. Add the rice, stir to mix, and sauté until it is opaque, 2 to 3 minutes.
Stir in the 6 cups water and the salt and bring to a boil. Decrease the heat to maintain a brisk simmer and cook, stirring often, until the rice is al dente and the liquid is mostly absorbed, about 20 minutes. (Add more water if the dish starts to dry out before the rice is cooked.)
Stir in the saffron, then the artichokes and shrimp. Cover the pan loosely with a kitchen cloth and let stand for 10 minutes for the rice to steam dry. Serve hot.
Portugal lies on the Iberian Peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and Spain, and many of its culinary inspirations pull from both those places. In the province of Alentejo in southern Portugal, a combination of pork and clams expresses the inherent poetry of this duality. Ruddy with paprika, fragrant with garlic, and redolent of salt air, it is an exotic, compelling dish in which land meets sea in a bowl. The Portuguese are so fond of it that it is exported with them anywhere they settle, including New Bedford, Massachusetts, where it is served with corn on the cob. The dish is traditionally made with pork meat, cubed, spiced, and marinated overnight. I have simplified the recipe by using chorizo for the pork. It provides the same spiciness and color while eliminating a lengthy step.
SERVES 4
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 yellow or white onion, quartered and thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
6 ounces
Chorizo
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 small bay leaf, crumbled
¼ cup white wine
½ cup water
2 pounds clams, mussels, or a mixture, scrubbed and mussels debearded if needed
In a large pot or sauté pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook until the onion begins to wilt, about 3 minutes. Crumble the chorizo into the pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until it begins to firm, about 2 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste, bay leaf, wine, and water and bring to a boil. Cover partially and cook until the liquid is reduced and the mixture is saucy, 5 minutes.
Add the shellfish to the pan, cover all the way, and cook until the shells open and their meat is slightly firm, about 5 minutes. Discard any shellfish that fail to open, then serve right away.
Cod, as food historian Mark Kurlansky convincingly purports in his fascinating exegesis on its commercial history, is “the fish that changed the world.” Evidence exists that commerce in cod was founded in the tenth century by seafaring Vikings who, seeking new fishing grounds when their homeland supply was depleted for the season, came upon Newfoundland and its cod bounty, establishing a trade route between the Old World and what was called the New World. In time, cod commerce gave rise to emigration and engendered settlements, eventually towns, along the northern Atlantic seaboard. Naturally, the first settlers in that harsh environment created food based on what was available: cod. Although much of it was preserved with salt to use at home and to ship across the Atlantic to the waiting market there, some was used fresh, especially in chowder. In this version, the cod is fashioned into a sausagelike mixture and formed into balls, which are joined in the soup pot by another popular local catch, shrimp. Northeast fishermen harvest the pink, intensely flavored Northern shrimp, also known as Maine shrimp, which are available only from winter through early spring. But almost any medium shrimp can substitute, as long as they are from North American waters.
SERVES 4 TO 6
Cod Balls
¾ pound skinless cod fillets
½ cup fine
fresh bread crumbs
½ teaspoon chopped fresh thyme or ¼ teaspoon dried thyme
2 teaspoons grated or minced lemon zest
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons heavy cream
1 teaspoon kosher salt
Small pinch of cayenne pepper
Chowder
2 tablespoons butter
⅔ cup sliced celery (¼-inch-thick slices)
1 cup finely chopped yellow or white onion
½ teaspoon chopped fresh thyme or ¼ teaspoon dried thyme
2 cups peeled and diced russet potatoes (½-inch dice)
7 cups milk
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
½ pound medium shrimp, shelled
2 tablespoons tomato paste
¾ cup heavy cream
To make the fish balls, place all the ingredients in a food processor and process to as fine a puree as possible. With moist hands, pat it into 1½-inch balls. Place on a plate, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use.
To make the chowder, melt the butter in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add the celery, onion, and thyme and cook, without browning, until the vegetables are wilted, about 5 minutes. Add the potatoes, milk, salt, and pepper, increase the heat to medium-high, and cook until the milk is bubbling up and a skin has formed across the top, about 10 minutes. Add the fish balls and simmer briskly until they are just firm, about 5 minutes. Add the shrimp and cook until they are barely pink, about 3 minutes.
Stir in the tomato paste and cream and heat through. Ladle into bowls and serve piping hot.
Salmon Croquettes with Fennel, Red Bell Pepper, and Arugula Slaw
Before the era of widespread refrigeration, most of the commercial salmon catch was smoked or canned so it could be stored until the next season. And there was plenty to can in those days, because the salmon population was not threatened by overfishing or pollution of their habitat. As a result, canned salmon became a fixture on grocery store shelves and in home pantries across the United States, and the salmon croquette became a specialty of American cooking. I recall my mother opening a can of salmon for a quick dinner, mixing it with egg, bread crumbs, and some seasonings, patting the mixture into cakes, and sautéing them until golden on both sides.
These days, it is not difficult to procure fresh salmon, and that is what I prefer for my croquettes, though always shopping with sustainability of the fish in mind. The price difference between canned and fresh is unexpectedly small, and it takes but a few minutes to cook salmon steaks or fillets—in the oven or in the microwave—for the croquettes. The payoff is, as is generally true, the taste difference: fresh is the best.
The croquettes make a pretty focus for a brunch or light dinner menu, as here, or serve them as an unusual side dish for breakfast with eggs cooked any style.