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...not a recreation of the Sistine Chapel!
But try telling that to Heston Blumenthal.
Diane and I recorded last week’s Further Adventures in Search of Perfection - the one about chili con carne – and watched it the other night with increasing amazement as he piled on layer after layer of daft, pointless elaboration.
The man hasn't a clue about how to cook with chilis, either: presented with something that used them - Oh look, they're in the name of the dish and everything! - he instantly reverted to Macho Man and went for the hottest he could find (or at least with the funniest name - Devil's Penis.) Someone should have let him try a Jolokia without telling him how hot it is; now that would have been really funny.
By over-doing it with the hot stuff, he made not only the addition of other chili varieties, used presumably because of their own individual flavour and character, an exercise in futility; he also defeated the intended purpose of every other tiresome time-wasting variation that he shoehorned in, by drowning all of them in one-note heat.
Von Blumenstein then stuck one of his sous-chefs - called Igor, I presume - into an MRI unit and fed him chili oil to see what would happen. It's called an endorphin rush, Heston, and it's an effect so well known there's been a sauce named after it for years.
Read the recipe and beappalled amazed; be warned, it goes on and on. And on. I doubt many people will think "Oh, must try this one." If they've made and enjoyed a chili from a much less complicated recipe than this one (most, if not all chili recipes on the planet qualify for that description) they might think other things entirely... Especially once they consider that Blumie's gadding about for these two series is financed (in part or entirely?) by the BBC license fee. Nice work if you can get it.
( Here comes the recipe... )
Well, I suppose he has to justify his Michelin stars and the prices to match, but there's an old saying about silk purses and sow's ears. Texican Chili con carne is no sow's ear, but it's no silk purse, either; more a tooled-leather saddlebag decorated with silver conchos. Gucci or Vuitton need not apply. Its peasant, or at least migrant-cattle-herder (cowboy) roots can't and shouldn't be ignored no matter how much it's dressed up, because they'll pop out when you least expect it and give you a surprise. My Fair Chili, anyone?
Quite apart from all the Ooh-look-at-me-aren't-I-clever additions (cipolline confit? finishing butter? carrots!? OMGWTF?), what made both of us roll our eyes was his surprise, expressed not once but twice, that cumin is such a major spice in chili. He didn't know? He didn't think to do a little bit of research on basic chili ingredients before fronting a program about it?
That's like being surprised to find people sometimes sprinkle vinegar on fish and chips. And it's not exactly a new development, either:
It's possible to fill an entire bookshelf - an entire wall of bookshelves - with volumes just about chili variants; I've got almost a dozen of these, among the couple of score of more generic "hot and spicy" cookbooks.
One thing's clear: the more traditional a chili is, the plainer it is, until you reach the basic version. This is simply meat (not minced, but chopped into ½-inch dice, though it's possible to buy very coarse "chili-grind" in the US) cooked with hot peppers, oregano, cumin, chopped garlic, and nothing else. No onions, no tomatoes, and definitely no beans. There are theories about that: one is that putting beans in, or serving them with, your chili suggested that you were stretching things, being either too poor or too cheap to buy enough meat. Another (this is the Deep South, butting against the Mexican border, so no surprise that it's racist) is that they were "beaner" or "greaser" food, so not eaten by white folks. Your choice.
Truly-trad chili is too stark for any but purists (or researchers), but it's possible to go too far in the other direction. That can raise passions: I don't know the exact US equivalent of a football hooligan or lager lout, but if you want to experience a Full and Free Exchange of Opinions, chili is as good a way to start as any. And they usually have guns, too.
It's just as well Blumenthal went to a chili cook-off in Washington DC rather than one in Texas. If they'd found out what he had in mind for the State Dish, he'd never have got out alive.
But try telling that to Heston Blumenthal.
Diane and I recorded last week’s Further Adventures in Search of Perfection - the one about chili con carne – and watched it the other night with increasing amazement as he piled on layer after layer of daft, pointless elaboration.
The man hasn't a clue about how to cook with chilis, either: presented with something that used them - Oh look, they're in the name of the dish and everything! - he instantly reverted to Macho Man and went for the hottest he could find (or at least with the funniest name - Devil's Penis.) Someone should have let him try a Jolokia without telling him how hot it is; now that would have been really funny.
By over-doing it with the hot stuff, he made not only the addition of other chili varieties, used presumably because of their own individual flavour and character, an exercise in futility; he also defeated the intended purpose of every other tiresome time-wasting variation that he shoehorned in, by drowning all of them in one-note heat.
Von Blumenstein then stuck one of his sous-chefs - called Igor, I presume - into an MRI unit and fed him chili oil to see what would happen. It's called an endorphin rush, Heston, and it's an effect so well known there's been a sauce named after it for years.
Read the recipe and be
( Here comes the recipe... )
Well, I suppose he has to justify his Michelin stars and the prices to match, but there's an old saying about silk purses and sow's ears. Texican Chili con carne is no sow's ear, but it's no silk purse, either; more a tooled-leather saddlebag decorated with silver conchos. Gucci or Vuitton need not apply. Its peasant, or at least migrant-cattle-herder (cowboy) roots can't and shouldn't be ignored no matter how much it's dressed up, because they'll pop out when you least expect it and give you a surprise. My Fair Chili, anyone?
Quite apart from all the Ooh-look-at-me-aren't-I-clever additions (cipolline confit? finishing butter? carrots!? OMGWTF?), what made both of us roll our eyes was his surprise, expressed not once but twice, that cumin is such a major spice in chili. He didn't know? He didn't think to do a little bit of research on basic chili ingredients before fronting a program about it?
That's like being surprised to find people sometimes sprinkle vinegar on fish and chips. And it's not exactly a new development, either:
Cumin: cumin is what gives chili its distinctive flavor. This musky seasoning is usually used as a ground spice; however, chili connoisseurs toast the whole cumin seed in a small dry frying pan, then grind it before adding to the chili. Toasting the seed enhances its flavor.- The Real Chili Cookbook, Marjie Lambert 1996.
Cumin: this spice is as essential as chili powder. The generous use of cumin is a hallmark of Tex-Mex cooking, clearly separating it from the more subtle touch south of the border.- The Mahattan Chili Co. Southwest American Cookbook, Michael McLaughlin 1986.
The dispute over the most authentic chile con carne is topped only by the "with or without beans" debate. The original recipe probably included a few wild onions, garllic, chili peppers and meat, Cumin, a treasured spice kept under lock and key in the kitchen of the Governor's palace in San Antonio, became a key ingredient.- Cuisine of the American Southwest, Anne Lindsay Greer 1983.
(from a pre-WW2 recipe, chili seasoning for 3lbs of cubed beef): 1 level teaspoonful of powdered oregano, 1 level tablespoon of crushed cumin seeds, 1 level tablespoonful of salt, 1 level tablespoon of powdered cayenne pepper, 1 tablespoonful of Tabasco sauce, chopped garlic cloves to taste, but at least two.- A Bowl of Red, Francis X. Tolbert 1966.
It's possible to fill an entire bookshelf - an entire wall of bookshelves - with volumes just about chili variants; I've got almost a dozen of these, among the couple of score of more generic "hot and spicy" cookbooks.
One thing's clear: the more traditional a chili is, the plainer it is, until you reach the basic version. This is simply meat (not minced, but chopped into ½-inch dice, though it's possible to buy very coarse "chili-grind" in the US) cooked with hot peppers, oregano, cumin, chopped garlic, and nothing else. No onions, no tomatoes, and definitely no beans. There are theories about that: one is that putting beans in, or serving them with, your chili suggested that you were stretching things, being either too poor or too cheap to buy enough meat. Another (this is the Deep South, butting against the Mexican border, so no surprise that it's racist) is that they were "beaner" or "greaser" food, so not eaten by white folks. Your choice.
Truly-trad chili is too stark for any but purists (or researchers), but it's possible to go too far in the other direction. That can raise passions: I don't know the exact US equivalent of a football hooligan or lager lout, but if you want to experience a Full and Free Exchange of Opinions, chili is as good a way to start as any. And they usually have guns, too.
It's just as well Blumenthal went to a chili cook-off in Washington DC rather than one in Texas. If they'd found out what he had in mind for the State Dish, he'd never have got out alive.
