Hungry In Hogtown

Lokum-motive: Turkish Delight, halva, dondurma and wondrous Istanbul

Of all the many ways to introduce newcomers to Istanbul, the drive into the city from Ataturk airport may well be the worst.

Short on beauty, at least the cab ride from the airport is a baptism by fire into one essential element of life in the metropolis on the Bosporus: traffic.

It's a half hour of cars swerving in and out of lanes, and aggressive drivers riding the horn and careening to their destinations with an urgency usually seen only in emergency workers.  We saw two accidents on that first taxi ride: one was a car flipped on its side on the median with the driver standing beside his wreck with his shirt dirtied and his pants ripped; minutes later, we watched two drivers arguing over their fender bender.

Then we got to experience the problem personally.  Just blocks from our hotel, our cab was lightly rear-ended by another cab.  No matter, our cabbie checked the damage using the passenger side mirror, muttered a few imprecations at the other driver under his breath, then zoomed on.

What compounds the terror is that not only does everyone drive like a maniac, but none of the backseats in the cabs have functioning seat belts.  The shoulder straps are there, but the buckles are buried under the backseats or are non-existent.

I survived the trip using a combination of white knuckles, closed eyes, and prayers to Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Ganesha, and L. Ron Hubbard.

 

Once safe and sound at our hotel, we gathered our wits, consulted our map, and hit the town -- on foot -- to sample a few of the local specialties.

Istiklal Caddesi is a glorious pedestrian boulevard in the heart of Istanbul's cosmopolitan Beyoglu neighbourhood.  On our first night, on the cusp of sundown in the middle of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting, we entered Istiklal Caddesi off a tiny sidestreet and were immediately immersed into a hive of humanity that easily qualifies as the pedestrian equivalent of the automobile traffic we'd just escaped.

But whereas all those cars terrify, this street invigorates.  Between the buzz of the faithful lining up in front of restaurants to break their daily fast and the many restaurants and cafes, some Western, some Turk, eager to help them do it, it was hard for us to decide where to stop first.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that hard.

Ever since I read Harold McGee's article praising Turkish ice cream, I'd been craving a taste.  Dondurma, as it's known in Turkey, has a uniquely chewy texture, a quality it owes to two factors: first, it's made using powdered orchid bulbs, known as salep in Turkish (which translates to "fox testicle" in English); second, it's not so much churned as it is kneaded and stretched vigorously.

The two processes work hand-in-hand.  Salep contains glucomannan, a carbohydrate that, as McGee explains, "bind[s] up and block[s] the movement of water molecules."  Kneading the ice cream turns this "network into a dense elastic mass" so thick it can be pulled like taffy and sliced with a knife.

Several cafes along Istiklal Caddesi sell salep ice cream.  Some emphasize the more theatrical aspects of this dessert: they pull cylinders of dondurma out of their freezers using extended metal rods, then they stretch and pull it, showing off its amazing pliability.  The only thing I can compare it to is glass blowing, and the oozing fluidity of molten hot glass as it's being pulled from ferociously hot ovens and shaped by the glassmaker.

We stopped at a few places.  I'd read about Mado during some pre-trip research and then had it recommended again by Cenk, a native of Istanbul and the author of Cafe Fernando, a droolworthy food blog.  Some argue it is Istanbul's best ice cream maker, and they do serve a delightful dondurma with a mild taste and a slight chew.

At the cheaper stands on Istiklal Caddesi, teenage boys spin their ice creams this way and that, teasing the buyer by almost juggling them, before handing over cups of dondurma that are far chewier and less flavourful than the more refined product at Mado.  This version encapsulates Rachel's objection to dondurma: done poorly, it reminds her of the gummy gelatinous texture that is a hallmark of cheap industrial North American ice cream.

A little further down the street we stopped at Haci Bekir, Istanbul's most renowned candy shop, which is famous for its Turkish Delight and halva.  Unfortunately, I've never been a fan of Turkish Delight.  In Canada, the only exposure most of us get to "Turkish Delight," known as "lokum" in Turkey, is the vile Big Turk chocolate bar -- a sickly sweet ribbon of hyper-sweet, fruit flavoured jelly enrobed in cheap milk chocolate.  The real stuff, however, I now love.  The version at Haci Bekir is delicately sweet, and its most noticeable flavours are nuts and rose water or mastic. 

Halva, a slightly sweet, grainy, tahini-based dessert, was already one of my favourite childhood treats.  My father would purchase it occasionally, and I remember gorging on it without ever having any idea what it was.  We went for a brick of pistachio because it works so well in most sweets, and halva is no exception.  This halva distinguishes itself for its texture, which seemed both a little moister and much finer than the tinned product sold in most Toronto groceries.

Already stuffed to the gills on Turkish sweets on first night in the city, we were nonetheless lured into a little hole in the wall pastry shop by the constant stream of people lining up for a mystery food being scooped into bowls from a big baking dish and slathered with chocolate sauce.  Whatever it was, business was brisk.

Turns out that Inci does a brisk business in profiteroles.  Unfortunately, we have to give these treats a thumbs down.  The choux pastry was good but the filling was heavy and a little coarse and likely thickened with cornstarch.

I returned to Mado every day of our trip, some days more than once, for a cup of dondurma.  To this day, the only Turkish I've really mastered is "Merhaba!  Salepi dondurma, lutfen."  I'm not sure that "Hello, salep ice cream, please," made me a great tourist in the eyes of Mado's staff, but it did make me a very happy eater.

Of course, it's easy to bring home a little lokum and halva, but ice cream travels poorly.  I was determined, however, to try making dondurma at home, so I purchased small amounts of salep and mastic for a small ransom at Istanbul's Spice Bazaar and decided to try my luck in my own kitchen.

Let's just say I'm still trying.  I have now created reasonable versions of dondurma at home.  Unfortunately, I lack the equipment to properly work the ice cream and it shows in the final product.  My version of dondurma has a far more pronounced mastic flavour than the versions we ate in Istanbul, but it is also far less chewy, the quality I love most.

Mastic is also a challenging ingredient to use.  It comes in jagged crystals and is actually the resin of a tree native to the Greek island of Chios.  Not only does it apparently contribute to the chewy texture of dondurma -- we saw mastic chewing gum for sale in Turkey --  it adds a sharply resinous, almost piney flavour to dishes, even when used in minute quantities.  I used less than one gram in my first batch of dondurma, and decided to scale it back ever so slightly for my second.

I've played with the amount of salep I use too, but I don't think I can approximate the texture of the real deal until I make dondurma in my stand mixer with liquid nitrogen, something I don't intend to do until summer.  I'm betting that the paddle attachment on my KitchenAid will provide the kneading muscle it takes to make this ice cream behave, and the liquid nitrogen will give me the temperatures I need to keep it chilled while doing so.

That said, if you happen to get your hands on some salep, a product unavailable outside of Turkey as far as I know, and a little mastic, which is available in most Turkish or Greek groceries, including Greek House Food Market in Toronto (where one of the owners told me many Greeks chew nuggets of mastic like gum), do try the recipe at the end of this post.

And if you can't get your hands on the ingredients, visit Istanbul.  For all my complaining about the terror of the ride into the city, all I remember about the cab back to the airport was sadness at saying goodbye to a beautiful city and its incredible food.

Dondurma -- Turkish ice cream

This recipe is still a work in progress.  Texturally, it's not quite there yet, though the flavours are excellent.  In order to improve its texture, I suggest making this ice cream with liquid nitrogen in a stand mixer so it can be kneaded thoroughly.

500ml 35% whipping cream
500ml 3.25% whole milk
0.8g mastic (a piece about the size of a fingernail)
12g salep (approximately 3 tsp)
200g granulated sugar (approximately 1C)

1. Freeze the mastic.  When frozen, grind to a fine powder in a coffee grinder with 10 grams (approximately 2 tsp) of the granulated sugar.
2. Heat the remaining sugar, all of the cream, and 250ml of the whole milk over medium-low heat.  Sprinkle the sugar and mastic mixture and salep over the milk mixture, whisking vigorously.  Heat the mixture to 80C, whisking constantly.  Remove the mixture from the heat, and add the remaining milk.
3. Chill the mixture completely, preferably overnight.
4. Churn chilled mixture in ice cream maker as per maker's instructions.

Cryo-gem: liquid nitrogen ice cream and marshmallows Alaska

My most memorable experience with liquid nitrogen is not the first time I watched someone cook with it at Moto, nor is it the first time I used it to turn orange juice into sorbet; it's not even the first time I tasted my first batch of liquid nitrogen ice cream.

No, those are memorable, but not that memorable.  That honour goes undoubtedly to the ride home after my second fill up when, after driving less than a block with a freshly filled ten litre dewar, we hit a bump.  The force of the impact briefly lifted the lid off the dewar, sending a few tiny streams of liquid nitrogen skyward.  None of this is too particularly troubling unless, of course, the dewar just happens to be nestled between your legs while streams of unbelievably cold liquid nitrogen arc towards your crotch.

Unfortunately, that was precisely my situation.

In its liquid form, nitrogen reaches mind- (and body-) numbingly cold temperatures around -196C.  That's frigid enough to do horrific damage.  A minuscule amount in the eye can blind, and sufficient amounts elsewhere cause frostbite and 'burns' equivalent to hot frying fat.  This is nasty stuff.

So during that brief flicker of time between the liquid nitrogen escaping the dewar and it landing on the fabric covering my boys (I have a strict policy about never transporting liquid nitrogen while naked), two thoughts went through my mind: How much is this gonna hurt? and Will Rachel still love me if I were a eunuch?

Thank God we didn't have to find out.

The corollary to nitrogen being a liquid below -196C is that it turns into a gas -- that is it literally boils -- above it, so you can imagine what happened on this particular hot summer day.  Drops of liquid nitrogen splashed on my crotch and the seat beneath it, and those that hadn't evaporated during the flight to my nether regions promptly did so with a sizzle on my crotch (sadly, I can take no credit for my sizzling manhood.  This time.).

The whole episode took no more than a few seconds, if that, but it highlights just how volatile and dangerous liquid nitrogen can be.

Liquid nitrogen's incredibly low temperature make it dangerous, but it also makes it the ultimate medium for preparing ice cream.  That's because the texture of ice cream -- its creaminess and smoothness -- are directly related to how quickly it's frozen.  Longer freezing times encourage ice crystal growth, crystals that feel gritty on the tongue, which, at least in my opinion, doesn't make for enjoyable ice cream.

I didn't want to have to resort to using liquid nitrogen -- well, okay, the geek in me absolutely did -- but I was driven to it by conventional ice cream makers like my Cuisinart standby.  It hurts to bash it, because my in-laws gave it to me and because it's helped me make a lot of really great ice cream, but it's just not in the same league.

To prove it, I invited some friends over for a semi-blind taste test.  The best test was a Philadelphia-style vanilla ice cream showdown for which I made a double batch of base frozen three ways: in my Cuisinart, in my friend's KitchenAid ice cream maker attachment, and with the paddle attachment of my KitchenAid stand mixer using liquid nitrogen.  I also added vanilla bean Haagen-Dazs and a cup of vanilla gelato from my local gelateria for good measure.

My friend's knew the five kinds of ice cream I'd be serving them, but they didn't know which was which.  They all agreed that the gelato was the worst of the five, not simply based on its overly sweet and largely non-existent vanilla taste, but also because of its weak, overly light texture.  I have no doubt this is because it had far more air beaten into it than any other ice cream in the tasting.

The Haagen-Dazs fared better but didn't stack up to the homemade versions.  Even the Cuisinart version, which ranked dead last among homemade ice creams, garnered more votes.  All three homemade ice creams shared a wonderful taste -- when it comes to ice creams, homemade equals unparalleled flavour regardless of how it's frozen -- but the Cuisinart ice cream had a noticeably icy texture.

The KitchenAid ice cream, on the hand, was excellent with almost no crystallization.  In fact, my only real complaint about it is that it left a thin film of greasy fat, likely butter, in the bowl of the attachment after churning.  That said, it produced ice cream so good that a couple of people made it their first choice, even over the ice cream prepared in liquid nitrogen.

The majority of the tasters still chose liquid nitrogen ice cream, and it finished no worse than second on anyone's ballot.  The fine line between those who preferred the KitchenAid over the liquid nitrogen seems to be that some of the tasters found the liquid nitrogen ice cream almost too dense and heavy.

That's precisely what I love about it.  Liquid nitrogen ice cream has a dense, custard-like mouthfeel; it's sort of what I imagine pudding would taste like were it frozen, and the effect is amplified when preparing egg-based (aka French-style) ice creams.

I say this from a position of experience.  The past two months have been a liquid nitrogen-induced fog of frozen goodness.  In addition to dairy-based vanilla, I've also made similar strawberry, chocolate, and chocolate and Guinness ice creams.  The list of egg-based ice creams I've made is even longer: panforte with strands of candied citrus peel that takes me back to our honeymoon in Siena; coffee, which makes for one helluva breakfast; toasted almond and cherry that sends Rachel over the moon with delight; and malted, my personal favourite, especially when I bite into a large spoonful with a crunchy Malteser, the best malted balls in creation.

Fellow ice cream aficionados may recognize that a number of the ice creams I mentioned come directly from David Lebovitz's book, The Perfect Scoop.  I've come to love that book over the past few months, and it's now my ice cream bible.  The fact that a book written by a former member of the Chez Panisse pastry kitchen is now my starting point when looking for recipes to freeze with liquid nitrogen is an irony that amuses me considerably.

Liquid nitrogen need not be used solely to make conventional ice cream.  As I wrote earlier, my first experiment with liquid nitrogen included plain orange juice, which becomes a refreshing, if slightly watery, sorbet.  To really take advantage of liquid nitrogen's freezing power, however, turn to the liquor cabinet.

Pure ethanol -- the happy juice in alcoholic drinks -- freezes at -114C.  Only those with a death wish drink pure ethanol, however, so we only have to worry about temperatures closer to 0C since the booze we consume is, literally, watered down to prevent an ugly death.  That said, 100 proof alcohol still requires temperatures of -32C to freeze, and no home ice cream maker can approach that.

It's child's play for liquid nitrogen, however.  Watermelon-infused vodka, for example, freezes into a refreshing sorbet that packs a huge wallop.  Bailey's turns into something magical.  Frozen, its texture is identical to incredibly smooth ice cream and it tastes delicious.  This is something of a problem given that eating a small scoop of Bailey's ice cream is the equivalent of drinking three or fours shots of liquor in just a couple of minutes.  Let's just say the Bailey's ice cream is the last frozen treat one makes during a session of liquid nitrogen experimentation.

There are uses beyond ice cream for liquid nitrogen.  I've not yet had a chance to experiment with some of the recipes from el Bulli, though I will soon, but even our less haute experiments produced intriguing results.  We 'cooked' Cheezies in liquid nitrogen and discovered that biting into one produces a rush of air that feels something like blowing into a balloon then releasing the air in it directly into the mouth.  The force was sometimes powerful enough to actually force our mouths open.

My favourite alternative preparation came from Rachel while we were experimenting with some friends.  Upon trying a frozen marshmallow, she suggested freezing one then scorching one end of it using our brulee torch.  It's the avant-garde version of baked Alaska and it's awesome because it produces a simple sugary treat with several distinct textures and flavours. The frozen end has a crispy exterior and a soft, chewy interior, while the bruleed side has that slightly oozy melted sugar texture along with a complex burnt sugar taste.  For a dish so simple in its conception and execution, I love how complex 'marshmallows Alaska' tastes and feels.  It's an experience I won't soon forget.

The key word is 'soon,' of course.  'Never' is a word I now reserve for an entirely different order of liquid nitrogen experiences.

The Queen of Spices: homemade cardamom-vanilla ice cream and Xacutti's cardamom biscuits

Ah, cardamom.  Is there anything it can't do?

Once found primarily in Indian dishes and the occasional Scandinavian baked treat, cardamom has emerged from its shell in recent years to claim a place in the wider world of cuisine.  And why not?  It has an ineffable vibrancy, equally capable of carrying both sweet and savoury dishes.  There aren't many flavours that can star in both a duck curry and an ice cream, but it's no problem for the Queen of Spices.  A diva it's not, though.  It can play a supporting role as well, providing an unmistakable but hard to place background note, the kind that leaves you asking, "What is that flavour?"

We were introduced to cardamom-vanilla ice cream by Kensington Market Organic Ice Cream, one of Toronto's best and, sadly, most elusive producers of artisanal ice cream.  We were infrequent visitors two summers ago when Bruce Kurtenbach, the company's founder, set up shop in the Kensington and began selling his wild assortment of flavours to the public: from rose petal and blue cheese to blueberry-lavender and, well, cardamom-vanilla.  The ice creams are still available in some stores -- The Healthy Butcher on Queen West comes to mind -- but the shop in the Kensington appears to be no more.

What's a cardamom-vanilla ice cream lover to do?  Make his own, of course.  And so I did.  But thanks to a tip from Rachel, I didn't stop there.  She suggested adding a little texture to the ice cream with pistachio praline, which I did by adapting a hazelnut praline recipe from Regan Daley's, In the Sweet Kitchen.

SHF #26: El Bulli's frozen chocolate air

It's here!  It's finally here!

After countless delays, El Bulli 2003-2004, the latest English language cookbook from the Catalan masters of molecular gastronomy is finally available in North America.  And what a marvel it is.  Ferran Adria and his acolytes continue to push the boundaries of food, adapting new techniques to new flavours.  This edition is notable for the advent of liquid nitrogen, liquid ravioli, dehydration, and the star ingredient in frozen chocolate air, soy lecithin.

If you're wondering what soy lecithin is, you're not alone.  Lecithin, regardless of its origin, is a powerful emulsifier.  If you love the rich texture of salad dressing, mayonnaise, or even Nutella, you owe a debt of gratitude to lecithin, the magic ingredient that stabilizes and thickens them.

Scooped again: raspberry white chocolate ice cream

Damn you, Judiaann Woo!  Sticky toffee pudding ice cream was, is, and forever will be my brilliant idea.  And yet I wake up one Sunday morning, flick on my computer, and discover that you've taken sticky toffee pudding ice cream, entered it in a competition on Food Network, and -- here's the kicker -- won!

That's right, and now Häagen-Dazs is releasing sticky toffee pudding as a limited edition ice cream available only until January.  I'm not bitter, oh no, though I have to admit some disappointment at the fact that Häagen-Dazs has released the flavour only in the United States.

In all fairness, her idea of sticky toffee pudding ice cream varies considerably from my own.  Whereas I created a custard infused with sticky toffee pudding, hers is basically a vanilla ice cream studded with hunks of sticky toffee pudding and "swirled with a sticky toffee sauce."  You know, that does sound good.

Now if I can just find a way to get my hands on some....

Nutella, not just for the bedroom anymore, Part II: Vanilla Nutella ice cream

We're not ones to ever miss something related to ice cream, but we missed the ice cream event.  I can't say I'm surprised.  We used to spend countless hours each week cooking, eating, writing posts, reading other blogs and offering comments.  That's changed lately -- some of you may have noticed that we've been posting and commenting far less than normal.  Now our time is consumed with lawyers, and insurance agents, and bankers.

After eight years in our two-bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto, we wanted more: more space, more (hell, any) yard, and, of course, a kitchen big enough for two people to work in without literally stepping on one another's toes.  Angry spouses and sharp blades are a bad combo, wouldn't you agree?

It all sounded so simple.

So we entered the Toronto real estate market.  Ugly.  House prices have been rising for the better part of a decade now, and the playing field is tilted strongly in the vendor's favour.  Our least favourite selling tactic was the lowball price with a fixed date for offers.  The low price sucks in many, many buyers, who all present offers one after another at a set time.  Such fierce competition forces any interested party to make an unconditional offer that far exceeds the asking price if they hope to have a chance of getting the house.  Picture seven or eight groups of buyers with their agents, pacing in the street outside the house in question as their offers are weighed and the neighbours peek through their windows.

We got burned by this strategy more times than I'd care to remember, and it began to take its toll.  Where once we used to get excited about a property we wanted, after two years and almost a dozen unsuccessful offers, we began to approach houses with a fatalistic, "let's see how we'll lose this house" attitude.

Then one day we finally got the house -- an old Victorian in Little Italy -- and on Tuesday we took possession.  During the mere month in between, our lives were consumed with the seemingly endless number of tasks it takes to turn pages of signatures into a set of keys to our new home.

IMBB #25: DC Duby's Pan-fried bread pudding with orange-braised endive and chicory ice cream

Ever prepare a dish that was good but left you wondering if it was good enough?  The issue I'm raising speaks to the relationship between the quality of a dish versus the amount of effort needed to create it.  Consider, for example, the classic Italian spaghetti aglio e oglio:  noodles dressed with good olive oil, some finely chopped garlic, dried chilli flakes to taste, and then topped with a generous grating of parmigiano or pecorino.  This is by no means my favourite pasta, but it is easy and delicious, and can be prepared in minutes.  For the minimal effort involved, the payback is huge.

Now take our contribution to the stale bread edition of Is My Blog Burning? hosted by An Obsession with Food, DC Duby's pan-fried bread pudding with orange-braised chicon (endive) and chicory ice cream.  Quite a mouthful to say, isn't it?  It should be, because making this dish requires no fewer than six distinct preparations, including fruit stock, bread pudding, braised endive, chicory ice cream, and two different caramels.  That's a lot of work for a home cook -- work measured in days and hours rather than minutes.

Drool Britannia! Sticky toffee pudding... ice cream

Rob:  Hey, Becks & Posh and Jam Faced are holding a St. George's Day What's For Pud event.  What's a traditional English dessert we can make?

Rachel:  What about sticky toffee pudding?  It sounds really homey and delicious and we've never tried it.  Look, it even has dates.  I love dates!

Rob (to himself):  I bet I can make ice cream out of it.

Rachel:  What did you say?

Rob:  Nothing, love.  (Under his breath) Oh, yes, there will be ice cream.  Lots of ice cream.  Mwahahahahahaha!

Rachel:  Why  am I suddenly nervous?

It's a bit of a story, really, but it all starts with a molecular gastronomy preparation: Moto's doughnut soup.   While preparing the doughnut soup, it occurred to me that I'd also essentially made an egg-free, or Philadelphia-style (aka New York- or American-style too, for that matter) ice cream base.  Unbeknownst to Rachel, I had already decided to turn our next baked dessert into an ice cream.

What macaroon isn't better with banana rum ice cream?

Challenge:  Coconut.  I don't really like coconut.  My wife, she loves the coconut, that's why we decided to participate in a macaroon event.

Why don't I like coconut?

Hard to say, but it's not so much the flavour as the fact that when I think coconut, I think Bounty (I guess that's the rough equivalent of an American Almond Joy), a "chocolate bar" composed of coconut enveloped in chocolate.  Macaroons usually aren't much better -- a coconut igloo topped with a radioactive cherry beacon.  What these treats -- what all treats -- made with shredded coconut have in common, and what I really object to, is mouthfeel: it's like I'm chewing on sweetened, stale hay.

Which leads us to Donna Hay, and today's Hay Hay It's Donna Day macaroon challenge sponsored by Pearl of the Orient.