Best Food Writing 2015 (19 page)

The Secret Ingredient in the Perfect Burger Is
. . .
The Secret Ingredient in the Perfect Burger Is
. . .

B
Y
D
ANIEL
D
UANE

From
Food & Wine

          
In his 2013 book
How to Cook Like a Man
, journalist Daniel Duane stakes his claim as an exemplar of Guy Food: a competitive, obsessive approach to nailing every recipe. (Luckily, he adds a healthy dose of irony to all that testosterone.) What food deserves to be perfected more than the mighty hamburger?

I have a problem. I have a daughter, too, but she's not the problem. The problem is, I am happiest in the kitchen when I'm going deep on some quest: studying the finer points of offal cookery, trying to make everything from pork kidneys to ox heart palatable, or testing my theory that a great cassoulet depends upon first butchering a pig and a lamb and a duck. This is a problem because my 11-year-old daughter, Hannah, passionately prefers familiar foods: spaghetti and meatballs, tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Most of all, that girl loves hamburgers—old-school, fast food burgers like the ones she gets in classic American burger joints courtesy of certain well-meaning people we might as well call grandparents.

In all fairness to myself, I had dreamed up family burger night as a loving concession, a way to offer the kid at least one meal a month she could feel good about. It should have been a growth opportunity, too—a chance for me to learn that not every meal has to be a step forward on my personal journey. All I had to do was buy the buns, the preground chuck, some lettuce, pickles and ketchup, and then put aside my
ego and make my child happy. But I couldn't stop myself from upping the ante, so I flipped through my Alice Waters cookbooks until I found a hamburger recipe, in the
Chez Panisse Café Cookbook
. California-meets-Provence, bistro-style, it called for toasted
levain
bread, grilled red onions, an obscure green herb called lovage that took weeks to find and cost a fortune, and nothing but Dijon mustard as a condiment. (“Sorry, kids,” I found myself declaring, “no ketchup allowed.”)

Hannah liked that burger fine, but I could tell it wasn't what she really wanted. So I pushed further toward what I mistook for excellence by adding garlicky aioli and then substituting the burger-patty instructions from Thomas Keller's best-selling
Ad Hoc at Home
. The secret, he explained, was to begin with whole cuts of sirloin, brisket and chuck, cut the meat into big chunks, toss it with salt, and then grind twice before gently shaping the patties by hand. To that end, I bought a grinder attachment for my KitchenAid mixer and discovered that my daughter did not belong to the minuscule percentage of 11-year-old girls for whom the sight and sound of a working meat grinder whets the appetite.

I loved those Alice-meets-Keller burgers. I'd eat one right now. But I couldn't miss the worry in my daughter's eyes, the fear that her father might never make a burger as good as the classic ones she ate at restaurants.

The next turning point came in a San Francisco stoner-Asian joint, Namu Gaji, where I had a sensational “Namu burger” on a soft white bun with spicy kimchi relish, aioli, and red onions glazed in balsamic vinegar and soy sauce. At home, I took the Asian-fusion impulse further, boosting my own aioli with Sriracha and fish sauce and mixing the beef with dried fermented fish flakes—a.k.a.
katsuobushi
, the ultimate umami-turbocharger. Then, in what I now consider the embarrassing nadir of my burger quest, I piled all of it right on top of the existing family sandwich—keeping the
levain
bread and the Dijon mustard—to create what turned out to be pretty much Hannah's worst nightmare.

This time, however, it wasn't just the kid who felt empty inside. Taking a bite of my own gargantuan Alice/Keller/Korean burger, I suddenly realized that it bore almost no relationship to the classic American burgers that even I had loved throughout my own American life.

“Time for research,” I told the wife. “Let's hit a few burger joints, find out what the pros are doing.”

She sent out queries on Facebook and Twitter, looking for recommendations. A pop-up called KronnerBurger rose to the top of the pile, so she made a reservation—just the two of us middle-aged married people squinting in the darkness of a seedy bar.

Chef Chris Kronner's girlfriend, Ashley Hildreth, set down our trays, delivering burgers that I can only describe as pop-art masterpieces—the burgers Andy Warhol would've created if he'd been working with Dairy Queen takeout instead of Campbell's Soup cans. Not too big and not too small, Kronner's burgers had simple white-bread buns with creamy white mayo, iceberg lettuce and red tomato and pickles, patties cooked rare. The visual aesthetic was old-school fast food—random burger joints in random little towns—but Kronner was a master chef, too, a veteran of San Francisco standbys like Slow Club and Bar Tartine. He wasn't playing around. (Kronner is opening a permanent KronnerBurger in Oakland, California, sometime this summer.) Each ingredient was a miracle of care and quality, combined in harmonious balance. My whole jaw slackened at the first bite. Every muscle in my mouth loosened as I chewed through a veritable clinic in advanced burgerology.

By the time I was done, I knew what my daughter had known all along: that the classic fast food hamburger is one of the world's perfect things. Glory lies not in reinventing that form, but in embracing its humble constraint, making it as good as possible without altering its fundamental identity.

We took the kids to KronnerBurger. They found the bar scary. Hannah—firstborn, rule-follower—demanded to know if it was even legal for us to have brought children there. Then we ordered, and Hannah picked up her burger. This, her face seemed to say, this is what I'm talking about.

I called up Kronner and begged for his secrets, hoping to replicate his burgers at home. Then I drove across town to purchase the exact
pain de mie
buns Kronner claimed to use. I removed a quarter-inch slice from the middle of each to improve the bun-to-patty ratio, and I spread butter onto each cut side so that, when I set the halves on the griddle, the butter's moisture would steam and soften the bun's interior while the cut surface browned. I tracked down Cabot Clothbound Cheddar and, per Kronner's instructions, beat it into the mayo to create a covert
cheeseburger effect. Red onions got sliced a quarter inch thick and then seared on only one side—never two—to create a sweet grilled flavor on one surface while leaving raw crunch on the other. I even pickled cucumbers from scratch, replicating Kronner's brine with lots of vinegar and salt—but no water or sugar—for a powerful acid-saline kick. As for the meat, it turned out that Kronner was blending dry-aged grass-fed chuck with short-rib fat, grinding exactly once and never pre-salting—convinced as he was that salt would break down cell walls during the grinding process, creating a dense meat-loaf quality.

Moments of beauty, in the weeks that followed:

Hannah saying, “You know, Dad, I would actually be happy with these burgers being our family burger forever.”

Hannah, again: “And Dad, I'm totally over that well-done thing. If the meat's really good, I actually like it pink now.”

And even: “I'm done with ketchup and yellow mustard, Dad. I only put that stuff on a burger now if it's a bad burger. It's kind of my secret way of insulting a hamburger.”

But, like I said, I have a problem and I have a daughter, and my daughter is not the problem. The problem is that I'm the kind of guy who, once he's gotten a handle on the basic burger, can't help noticing the brioche smoked-potato bun recipe in bread genius Chad Robertson's new book,
Tartine Book No. 3
. And sure, making Robertson's sourdough starter is a weeklong process followed by days of mixing, kneading and rising to produce what could be the finest hamburger buns ever baked—but that's exactly the kind of trouble I can't stop looking for.

Ode to the Kronnerburger
Ode to the Kronnerburger

Active: 45 minutes

Total Time: 2 hours

Servings: 4

            
2 cups distilled white vinegar

            
½ small yellow onion, thinly sliced

            
3 garlic cloves, crushed and peeled

            
2 whole cloves

            
1 star anise pod

            
½ teaspoon coriander seeds

            
½ teaspoon caraway seeds

            
Kosher salt

            
1 English cucumber, sliced ¼ inch thick

            
4 dill sprigs

            
2 large egg yolks

            
1½ tablespoons apple cider vinegar

            
1 cup vegetable oil

            
½ cup finely grated aged white cheddar, such as Cabot Clothbound

            
1 teaspoon hot mustard powder

            
Pepper

            
4 medium white or brioche burger buns

            
Softened unsalted butter, for brushing

            
1 red onion, sliced ¼ inch thick

            
1½ pounds ground beef chuck (25 percent fat)

            
Sliced beefsteak tomato and iceberg lettuce, for serving

            
1. In a medium saucepan, combine the white vinegar, yellow onion, garlic, whole cloves, star anise, coriander and caraway seeds and 2½ tablespoons of salt and bring just to a boil, stirring to dissolve the salt. Add the cucumber slices and dill, remove from the heat and let cool completely. Transfer the cucumbers and brine to a jar and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 3 days.

            
2. Meanwhile, in a blender or mini food processor, combine the egg yolks with the cider vinegar and 2 tablespoons of water and puree until smooth. With the machine on, add the oil a few drops at a time until the mayonnaise starts to thicken, then add the remaining oil in a very thin stream until the sauce is emulsified. Add the cheese and mustard powder and puree until smooth. Season the mayonnaise with salt and pepper and scrape into a bowl. Refrigerate until chilled, about 30 minutes.

            
3. Heat a cast-iron grill pan until very hot. Brush the cut sides of the buns with butter and grill over moderately high heat until lightly browned, about 1 minute; transfer to a platter. Add the red onion slices to the pan and grill until lightly charred on the bottom, about 2 minutes; transfer to a plate.

            
4. Gently form the ground beef into four ¾-inch-thick patties, packing them as loosely as possible. Season generously with salt and pepper
and grill over moderately high heat, turning once, until lightly charred on the outside and medium-rare within, about 4 minutes total. On each bun, set 3 pickle rounds, 1 slice of tomato and 1 slice of grilled onion and top with the burger and an iceberg leaf. Generously brush the bun tops with the cheddar mayonnaise, close the burgers and serve right away.

Ragù Finto
Ragù Finto

B
Y
C
AL
P
ETERNELL

From
Twelve Recipes

          
You'd expect a Chez Panisse chef like Cal Peternell to write a cookbook full of precise, highly wrought recipes. But way better,
Twelve Recipes
is an empowering cookbook for any beginner. As the twelve recipes each diverge into a bazillion variations—like this ragu sauce—amateur cooks can be inspired to find their own voice in the kitchen.

Most pasta sauces can be made in the time it takes for a big pot of cold water to come to a boil. Some take much longer, and in learning to know the difference, there may be some moments of disappointment and of hunger (or at least satisfaction delayed). It became clear that my son Henderson hadn't completed this part of his cooking education one night as I was tasting the evening's dishes at Chez Panisse. Saturday night at five o'clock is a crunchy moment at the restaurant. Late lunchers are trying not to look toward the door, knowing they must leave soon to make room for the dinner crowd but still lingering in Zinfandel afterglow. Early diners are waiting at the bar, and everywhere bussers and waiters are working hard to clean up after the 200 people who just had lunch while getting ready for the 250 coming in for dinner. The cooks are setting up their stations and, though tensed for the headlong rush about to begin, seem calm: the open kitchen can't hide chaos on either side, so we try mightily to keep a sane appearance. This is also “tasters” time (we taste one of everything on the menu every day—the number one secret to good cooking in a restaurant and at home: taste
always), and I am at the salad station in the midst of trying one of the first courses when the sauté cook leans over to say that Henderson is on the phone from New York. We are a close crew and they know my sons well. They also can't help but overhear, so the culinary comedy of the conversation that follows is lost on no one.

“Hey, Dad. Sorry, I know you're busy, but I'm making Bolognese and can I just ask you a quick question? Don't hang up.”

“Sure.” I wasn't going to.

“Okay. What's the best meat to use?”

“Well, what kind have you got?”

“I'm going to the store now.”

“But Bolognese takes hours to cook, and in New York it's, what, eight o'clock now? Is the store even open? Oh, sorry, it's New York, right.” I roll my eyes at the cooks and squeeze a little lemon on the rocket salad we are trying. The faces of cooks and waiters around me show a mix of amusement at the content of our conversation and amazement that it's even taking place just as the curtain is going up on the evening.

“I can get the meat, just what kind?”

“Even if you get it now, you won't start cooking till nine, won't be done till like midnight.” Oh, sorry, it's New York. Right.

“Yeah, but I'm on my way, walking to the store now.”

“I think you should get some eggs and whatever salad looks okay, bread, cheese maybe. Bolognese is going to have to be for another night. Can I call you back later?”

I called him later and he did have eggs and good toast for dinner that night, but it made me think about getting a Bolognese-like sauce recipe to him. Something you could make up pretty quickly but that would satisfy like that classic long-cooked meat sauce from Bologna. Pork should be the meat in it because, as my friend's mother says, “Pork just tastes better.” Or, as my other friend says, “Chicken has become the default cheap meant, but it really ought to be pork. Pork already is what we think chicken should be. Pork is more chicken than chicken.” She's probably right, but what I love about ground pork for a pasta sauce is its sweet, rich flavor and its ability to quickly cook to tenderness. The sauce I came up with can, in fact, cook in the 30 or so minutes it takes to boil the water and cook the pasta, but it's a bit better if there's time to simmer longer.

Ragu Finto
Ragu Finto

            
Salt

            
1 pound ground pork or pork sausages, taken out of the skins

            
2 tablespoons olive oil

            
Freshly ground black pepper

            
Crushed red pepper flakes

            
¾ teaspoon each toasted and ground fennel and coriander seeds (optional)

            
1 yellow onion, sliced

            
2 tablespoons chopped parsley

            
2 garlic cloves, chopped finely

            
1 15-ounce can peeled whole tomatoes, chopped, juice reserved separately

            
1 pound rigatoni or penne

            
Parmesan cheese

            
1. Put a big pot of cold water on to boil. Add salt.

            
2. Spread out the ground pork like a hilly landscape on the paper it was wrapped in, or on a plate, sprinkle with ½ teaspoon salt, and grind on some black pepper. If desired, for a more sausage-y effect, sprinkle with red pepper flakes and toasted and ground fennel and coriander seeds.

            
3. Spreading the meat out like this shows more surface area to the seasonings and requires less handling to mix it in. Overhandling ground meat can make it turn tough, so don't. Fold up the patty of pork and mix it just until the spices are well distributed. Of course, if you're using sausage, then skip these seasoning steps.

            
4. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1 tablespoon of the oil and then quickly add the pork, breaking it into chunks and placing it into the hot pan bit by bit. Tilt the pan to spread the oil around and nudge the pork around to fill in the gaps and get even browning, but don't move it around too much. The skillet should be at full-throated sizzle—if it's too quiet, turn up the heat. Resist the temptation to poke and stir at this point; just let the meat fry: it will go from pink to gray and, if you stay out of its way, to a nice caramel brown, which looks and tastes much better, sweeter. When the first side is ready, turn the pieces over and brown the other side. Set the pork aside on a plate and tip out
some of the grease if it makes you feel better, though I generally find myself adding it back in later.

            
5. Add the remaining tablespoon of oil, if needed, and the onion. Sprinkle with salt and stir with a wooden spoon to scrape up the bits of browned meat as the onion begins to get juicy. Lower the heat to medium and cook the onion, stirring occasionally, until very tender, about 15 minutes. Add the parsley, garlic, and red pepper flakes and stir for a minute as the garlic sizzles, but don't let it get even a little bit browned. When the garlic smells really good, add the tomatoes and the pork. Use the back of the spoon on any chunks that are too big, and adjust the heat so that the sauce is simmering but not bubbling fast. At this point, you can cook the pasta in the salted, boiling water, stirring frequently, and the sauce will be done in the 10 or so minutes it takes to cook, though it will get better if given another 10 for the pork and tomatoes to enjoin.

            
6. If the pan starts to dry out and sizzle, add some of the juice from the tomatoes or, if you've used all the juice, a little water. Chicken or pork stock works very well also, but water is fine.

            
7. Taste the pasta, and when it is done, drain and add it to the sauce, and toss, stir, and toss. Taste it; you may want to add some salt, oil, or the pork fat you set aside—or a splash of the pasta water if it needs more flow. Serve hot and pass the cheese to grate.

When I was fourteen, I had a girlfriend who was way ahead of me. She had older brothers who loved extreme skiing and the Rolling Stones, and I remember how they laughed at me when I declared the Stones' cover of “Jumpin' Jack Flash” inferior to Peter Frampton's original. I still blush like an adolescent boy when I think of my folly (she broke up with me a month later), but sometimes it's like that: you get to liking the imitation so well that you start seeing it as the real thing. I didn't know that pistachios weren't red, that “butter” was margarine, that tomato soup wasn't born in a can, and Warhol didn't design the label. Enlightened, if humiliated, I am delighted with the originals—Mick inarguably does “Jumpin' Jack Flash” better than Peter, but wouldn't it be cool if it turned out that Andy started as some guy in the Campbell's design department?

When I have time to make the original ragù, Bolognese, I dice the onion along with carrots and celery and replace half of the pork with
beef. I use chicken stock to give it richness and an especially luxurious texture. The sauce can be started and finished on the stovetop or finished in the oven. If you choose to keep the pan on the burner, turn it very low so that the sauce bubbles contentedly. Add stock or water in doses, every 15 minutes or so, as the liquid in the pan reduces. When the pork is quite tender and begins to get very comfortable in its velvety-textured surroundings, it's done, usually a couple of hours. For a richer, but somehow not heavier, effect, use whole milk for your last addition of liquid. To cook the ragù in a 325°F oven, add enough liquid to the pan so that the meat is covered by a quarter inch or so, bring to a simmer, and slide into the oven. Check every half hour, adding more liquid if needed. Chef Boyardee wishes he made it like this.