Hungry In Hogtown

Menu for Hope 5: An autographed copy of Ferran Adria's A Day at elBulli

It's holiday season, and in the food blogging world that means only one thing: Menu for Hope.

Menu for Hope is an annual charity raffle hosted by Chez Pim for which food bloggers around the globe donate incredible food and drink-themed prizes.  Proceeds from this year's auction will once again benefit the UN World Food Programme's school lunch programme in Lesotho.

You can help by choosing your favourite prizes, making a large donation here, then entering your raffle tickets in the draws for those prizes.  For a complete list of prizes, including items from Canadian bloggers, visit the following sites:

Canada: Meena Agarwal of Hooked on Heat
US: West (Closer to SF than to NY.): Matt Armendariz of Matt Bites
U.S. East (Closer to NY than to SF.): Jaden Hair of Steamy Kitchen
Europe: Sara of Ms.Adventures in Italy
Asia Pacific, Australia, New Zealand: Ed Charles of Tomato
Special Wine Blog Host: Alder of Vinography

For complete information on how to make a donation, check out the instructions at the end of this post.

Rachel and I are proud to contribute an autographed copy of A Day at elBulli, the latest volume from Ferran Adria, the world's most famous chef.  A Day at elBulli is a photo-essay of a service at elBulli interspersed with recipes, menus, and musings.  Chef Adria autographed this copy during his visit to Toronto in October.

If you're looking for the perfect gift for the cookbook collector or molecular gastronomy geek in your life, look no further.  Let it ride on prize CA02, the prize code for this autographed copy of a remarkable book that we will ship anywhere in Canada or the United States.

And please help a great cause in the process.

Donation Instructions:
1. Choose a prize or prizes of your choice from our Menu for Hope at http://www.chezpim.com/
2. Go to the donation site at http://www.firstgiving.com/menuforhope5 and make a donation.
3. Each $10 you donate will give you one raffle ticket toward a prize of your choice. Please specify which prize you'd like in the 'Personal Message' section in the donation form when confirming your donation. You must write-in how many tickets per prize, and please use the prize code.
For example, a donation of $50 can be 2 tickets for EU01 and 3 tickets for EU02. Please write 2xEU01, 3xEU02
4. If your company matches your charity donation, please check the box and fill in the information so we could claim the corporate match.
5. Please allow us to see your email address so that we could contact you in case you win.  Your email address will not be shared with anyone.

Nosh In My Backyard, Part II: el Bulli's rose petals in tempura, sardines wrapped in grape leaves, and a bowl of cherries

Every fall, I can close my eyes, inhale the air around me, and imagine, if only briefly, that I live in a vineyard rather than the heart of downtown Toronto.  When the wind is right, the sweet smell of countless clusters of ripe grapes perfumes the streets of Little Italy.  Hundreds of wooden grape crates pile up in front of houses, evidence that the scent is not entirely homegrown, but few backyards in this part of town, including our own, are complete without at least one sprawling grapevine. 

That Toronto's original Portuguese and Italian quarter hosts so much viniculture should come as no surprise, but I didn't realize until we left the heart of the highrise concrete jungle, a place literally without backyards, how rich the urban breadbasket truly is.  My favourite sign of spring is the profusion of tiny white blossoms on our neighbour's cherry tree.  Any flowering fruit tree will do, however, from the pear and crabapple trees across the street, to the apple trees that shade the patio of a nearby College Street café.

Such visions of a quaint urban idyll feed into the current rage for all things local.  Locavorism, as it's come to be known, may well be the hottest trend in food and dining.  Fed by concerns over product quality and environmental sustainability, locavorism has grown from a niche market to a cornerstone of modern gastronomy.  At restaurants, provenance used to be the exclusive domain of wine lists, now it's hard to find a menu that doesn't gush about the origins of its Mennonite chickens or Cookstown Greens.  "Local," it seems, has become the current shorthand for "quality."

If only that were true.

Yes, locally grown food often tastes superior to food that has endured a trans-continental flight, but that's not always so.  Rachel and I participated in a community-supported agriculture (CSA) initiative last summer and found the produce disappointing.  Our large weekly box often contained wilted vegetables in quantities too small even for a meal for two.  Come fall, we were only too happy to abandon our failed experiment.

Restaurants that foresake foreign products do so at the risk of serving lower quality dishes while fostering a false sense of virtue.  As an environmental statement, eating at a restaurant pales in comparison to the greenest option of all: staying at home and cooking.  This has not stopped some of the highest profile names in the restaurant world from flaunting their green credentials by making token gestures like eliminating imported bottled water from their menus.  Alice Waters made headlines last year by doing just this, though her push for sustainability apparently doesn't include eliminating all those bottles of imported vino from Chez Panisse's wine list despite the restaurant's proximity to one of the world's great wine regions.

We can neither forgo frequent trips to the market and grocery store nor our occasional reliance on Chile for some winter veggies, but this year I was determined to take advantage of the bounty that grows around us.  El Bulli's rose petals in tempura are actually the perfect marriage of purpose and convenience.  I'd been hoping to make this dish for a couple of years, but finding edible roses proved to be an obstacle I could never overcome.  Even organic florists tend to hem and haw when asked if their product is safe for human consumption.  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," was the typical response.

Thank God for our front yard, which has exploded with red and white roses this summer despite our (apparently benign) neglect.  Our three bushes produced enough roses for a small army of blushing brides and beauty queens, let alone a recipe that calls for a mere twenty petals.  The tempura batter in which they fry defies convention; it's actually leavened with yeast and left in the fridge for four hours to develop its flavours.  Once removed from the fat, the petals are drizzled with a little honey and rose water then sprinkled with a grain of sea salt.  The result tastes wonderful.  Sweet, salty, uncannily succulent, and, yes, floral.  Surprisingly, however, those floral notes come not from the rose, that, on it's own, tastes rather plain, but from the rose water garnish.

I almost missed the perfect opportunity to take advantage of our grapevines.  Despite being grape lovers, we've never been overly fond of the grapes that grow in our backyard.  Our neighbours, decades-long veterans of the grape growing game, insist they're unsuitable for wine, but the thick and leathery skin that surrounds their sugary flesh renders them equally inappropriate for the table.  For the past two autumns all they've done is fill our nostrils for a couple of weeks with a scent powerfully reminiscent of Welch's grape juice and beckon a bevy of winged diners.

A few weeks ago, after spending part of an afternoon trimming our vine and rather shortsightedly disposing of a small bagful of leaves, I realized I'd just binned the best way to take advantage of our plant.  No worries, of course, because I simply hopped back on our stepladder, and trimmed a few more leaves from our vine.  My original plan was to make dolma, grape leaves stuffed with rice, herbs, and other fillings, like ground meat, but, much to Rachel's chagrin, I've never been a fan.

I searched high and low for an alternative before stumbling upon sardines.  Rachel and I both adore oily fish, and this dish is fantastic (see recipe below).   I stuffed the gutted bellies of our sardines with a mixture of diced preserved lemon, parsley, and ground black pepper.  After boiling the grape leaves for one minute, a process that muddies their normally vibrant green colour, I wrapped them tightly around the sardines, leaving only the head of the fish and part of its tail exposed.  After ten minutes on a hot charcoal grill, all that's left to do is split these little swimmers open, sprinkle them with sea salt and drizzle with some freshly squeezed lemon juice.  We savoured their juicy flesh against the contrasting crunch of the grilled leaves on a lazy Saturday evening spent in our backyard with a crisp white wine.  It was heaven.

Of course, growing your own food isn't all wine and roses.  I must confess to lusting after our neighbour's cherry tree.  Not only are cherry blossoms gorgeous, but cherries rank among my favourite fruits.  Besides, the branches of their tree stretch into our yard, forcing me to duck just to walk the path to my front door.  I take that as a clear sign that their tree pines as much for me as I pine for it.  How, then, to get my hands on some of those cherries?  Guile's not my forté, so I asked.  After careful consideration, we were given permission to take some delicious cherries.

There is but one problem.  These cherries aren't so delicious.  After reading so many descriptions of people picking and eating ripe fruit directly from the tree and being overwhelmed by the experience perhaps I expected too much.  The typical palaver involves "tasting sunshine," or "feeling Mother Nature's juices drip down your chin" and other such nonsense.  These "sweet" cherries tasted like nothing of the sort; instead, they made me yearn for a taste of the California cherries I've actually enjoyed so far this season.

Two out of three ain't bad, I guess.

Besides, the summer has just begun, and I hope Little Italy's patchwork of backyard farms produces a bumper crop.  Yesterday I passed a humble backyard garden down the street.  It's tended to by an elderly Portuguese man who takes obvious pride in his work.  His tomato vines are slowly spiraling their way skyward, and, tucked in a corner, the vibrant orange and yellow of the season's first zucchini flowers signal yet another opportunity to feast on an uncommon delicacy.  I'm sure this gardener cares not one wit for culinary trends, and he's probably never even heard the term "locavore," he just yearns for the simple pleasure of rediscovering each year the flavours that have comforted him his entire life.

Grilled Sardines Wrapped in Grape Leaves

This recipe can, of course, be made with jarred grape leaves preserved in brine.  If you have access to a grapevine, follow this guide to selecting leaves.  We prefer the wonderfully smoky, lightly charred taste imparted by charcoal grilling, but I'm sure this recipe works equally well cooked on a gas grill or roasted in the oven.

Making preserved lemons is a simple process, and the results enhance the flavour of any number of dishes.  We use Eric Ripert's recipe from A Return to Cooking.  The recipe from Chez Panisse Fruit via 101 Cookbooks is very similar.

12 large grape leaves, rinsed
8 sardines, gutted, cleaned, and scaled
1/2 preserved lemon, rinsed, flesh removed, and finely diced
16 sprigs Italian parsley
salt and pepper to taste
1 lemon, cut into wedges

Using scissors or a knife, remove the stems and any thick, attached vein, being careful not to cut the leaf in two.  Cook the grape leaves in a pot of boiling water for 1 minute.  Remove from the water, separate carefully, and lay flat on a tea towel to dry.

Preheat outdoor grill to 230C (450F).

Lay leaf vein-side up, using pieces of any spare leaves to patch holes.  Lay sardine diagonally across the leaf, so its head extends just beyond the tip of the leaf.  Stuff the chest cavity of each sardine with parsley and preserved lemon, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Fold one end of the leaf over the sardine and tuck it firmly under the fish, then roll the sardine until it is tightly packed in the leaf.  Repeat with remaining sardines.

When grill has come to temperature, place sardines over direct heat and close lid.  Flip after 5 minutes and continue grilling, covered, for 3-5 more minutes, until sardines are fully cooked but still moist.

Serve immediately with additional salt, pepper, and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice to taste.

Foaming at the mouth, Part II: el Bulli's tortilla de patatas Marc Singla foam

For the longest time, I was convinced that only the French know how to make a good omelette.  Rachel and I had eaten our share of Spanish tortillas and Italian frittatas, and found them wanting: thick rounds of leaden, overcooked eggs with a consistency more reminiscent of a custard forgotten in the oven than an old world culinary classic.  The French insist an omelette should be thin, light, and cooked just long enough to firm one side while leaving the other creamy.

The French are right.

Then we visited Cal Pep, one of Barcelona's most famous tapas joints, and discovered a tortilla that puts omelettes to shame.  There, cooks scoop a mixture of potato, chorizo, onion and golden, creamy eggs into sizzling hot, high-sided small pans. One flip and a minute or two later, they slide a thick, lightly caramelized disc about the size of a large hamburger patty onto a plate, slather the top with allioli, a garlicky mayonnaise better known by its French name, aïoli, and await the delighted squeals of ravenous customers.

What makes this tortilla so special is that, unlike its Iberian and Italian cousins, it offers that magical mix of cooked and creamy egg that makes a French omelette superior.  Cut open Cal Pep's tortilla, and, underneath the lightly caramelized crust, lies a core of warm, not-quite-set egg.  Allioli complements the unctuousness of the interior while nuggets of spicy chorizo and potato add body and flavour.  It's enough to make me forget France forever.

The tortilla's iconic stature in Spanish gastronomy means that Ferran Adria can't resist riffing on it,  even if he's got to crib from another chef to do it.  El Bulli's evolution of the hot 'tortilla de patatas Marc Singla' foam from el Bulli: 1998-2002 deliciously deconstructs the standard dish.  Raw yolks and a barely cooked sabayon mean the egg portion of this tortilla is a golden syrup that flows on the palate, and Adria opts for a tangle of caramelized onions for their complex savoury-sweet bite.

Yet it's the potatoes that grab your attention.  Gone are the chunks of spud, replaced instead by an almost overwhelmingly rich foam made by boiling potatoes, enriching them with cream and olive oil, then blending and pouring the mixture into an iSi Gourmet Whip charged with nitrous oxide.  The Gourmet Whip is unique because it can be heated, so after spooning caramelized onion into the bottom of a martini glass and gilding it with some raw egg yolk and sabayon, the dish is crowned by a layer of piping hot potato.

Despite my misgivings -- blending potatoes is normally a recipe for glue, not haute cuisine -- the foam is spectacular.  It has a noticeably buttery taste even though it has no butter, and the texture is, not unexpectedly, light but still substantive enough to form the backbone of the dish.  My only complaint, and here, yes, I'm trying to have it both ways, is that I miss some of the complexity of flavour and texture that comes from the caramelized exterior of Cal Pep's tortilla.

I've tried to reproduce Cal Pep's tortilla at home, but I'm not quite there yet.  Problem number one is that my non-existent Catalan makes translating the recipe difficult (someone help me, please).  Problem number two is that I have yet to find a pan suitable for the job.  My results so far have been good but not stellar: a respectable crust, but a slightly overcooked centre.  No matter, I can always turn to el Bulli's version, or, failing that, Rachel assures me I prepare a mean French omelette.

SHF #34, Nosh In My Backyard: Regan Daley's wild blueberry pie and el Bulli's rhubarb with sugar and pepper

The summer heat shimmers around me and I can hear the oscillating buzz of grasshoppers as I sit on my front steps.  Time is stretching out and slowing down the way it does only for children. I don’t even realize I’m hungry until my mother appears with a pile of vermilion stalks on a plate, with a little bowl next to it.  I dip a rhubarb piece into the sugar in the bowl and bite down, savouring the shock of the sharp juicy sour crunch.

Rhubarb grew in a shady corner of our backyard, looking like horizontal ruffled elephant ears.  We’d pick the stems before they got too thick and woody, and cook them in jams and pies, while the children would often eat them raw with sugar as a treat.  Even though I hated celery and complained about its strings, I’d tear into rhubarb stalks with relish and valued the stringy fibres that straggled behind for their ability to hold extra sugar when I swept the stem through the sugar dish.

Ferran Adria offers a more sophisticated version of this childhood treat in el Bulli: 2003-2004.  He takes tender young raw rhubarb, carefully trimmed to minimize the tough fibres, and rolls them in demerara sugar and black pepper.  It’s a sharp dish -- the crystals of the sugar and the pepper’s heat seem to emphasize the sour taste -- but the added flavours round it out as well.  It’s surprisingly elegant for such a simple preparation.

It's also a perfect dish for the latest edition of Sugar High Friday, hosted by the passionate cook, which is all about going local.  Not only does rhubarb grow like a weed in our home province, Ontario, but the rhubarb we used to make our version of this dish was given to us by our friend Jill, who harvested the stalks from her mother's garden.

My parents no longer live at that house, but their current home does have another crop in the backyard.  Wild blueberry bushes dot the rocky brush behind their house in Sudbury, and it was an easy task to step out for fifteen minutes and return with a small pail of sapphire-hued treasures.  I say "was."  Construction crews are building a new housing development right over the backyard berry patch.  Sudbury’s economic boom is bad news for my blueberry pancake habit, which my mom has indulged during every summertime visit.  At least the construction reduces the chance of hungry bears coming into the yard, lured by the berries.

And there is simply no comparison between wild and farmed blueberries -- one of the reasons I gorge myself on blueberries at my parents’ house.  Sure, the domestic ones are just as pretty and twice the size, but they’re completely flat in flavour.  The wild ones pack a whallop of acidity and sweetness into each tiny globe, worth every sunburn and mosquito bite and sore back from picking that I’ve endured in their pursuit.

Regan Daley agrees.  "There is one thing you must remember in order to make this pie:  YOU NEED WILD BERRIES!  Never use the cultivated ones.  They make lousy pies, and lousy everything else for that matter," she states in her book In The Sweet Kitchen.  Blueberry pie has never been a real favourite
of mine, but I’d picked and brought back several pints of berries from my last visit, Rob was eager to try it, and Regan had not yet steered us wrong.

Her track record is still perfect.  The crust, made with lard and butter, is phenomenal:  light and crisp and flaky, we chased the last bits around the plate with our forks, unwilling to let any crumb go uneaten.  And the filling!  Rather than the stodgy, almost solid gel of store-bought blueberry pie, this is a juicy confederation of berries in all their summer glory.

We ate an astounding amount of the pie when it was fresh from the oven, and an even more surprising amount the next morning.  The recipe specifically mentions that, being comprised of flour, egg, and fruit, blueberry pie is an "honourable" breakfast food.  And though it may not be my mom's pancakes, it extends the tradition of fashioning simple, delicious treats from the bounty in the backyard.

The undisputed king of noodles: el Bulli's two metre parmesan spaghetto

Sometimes molecular gastronomy can be a real pain in the ass.  Even the simplest of recipes -- and a two metre parmesan spaghetto is, believe it or not, relatively straightforward -- can be sabotaged by seemingly benign requirements, requirements like "1-1 L ISI siphon with the emptying attachment spaghetti."  Emptying attachment spaghetti?

Mangled English aside, I have no idea what that might look like, nor have I found a retailer that sells it.  The likely reason is simple: the spaghetti attachment is actually a customized piece of equipment designed specifically for (and likely by) el Bulli itself.

Unfortunately, the attachment points to a larger problem with pursuing molecular gastronomy at home generally, and cooking from the el Bulli cookbooks specifically: both require a constant stream of specialized equipment -- equipment that is often difficult, if not impossible to get.  The el Bulli cookbooks compound the problem by offering no indication of where, or even if, the necessary equipment can be purchased.

Caramellow: el Bulli's cream and white coffee caramels

Who among us doesn't fondly recall the sheer joy of a trip to the local convenience store as a child?  Maybe your parents had just handed you a dollar, or maybe you'd found some spare change lying on the sidewalk.  If you were like me, you instantly converted whatever newfound pittance was burning a hole in your pocket into a small brown paper bag of your favourite treats: chips, chocolate bars, Freezies, maybe even licorice.

Forget change, I wanted to leave that store broke.  And that's where penny candy came in handy.  What good is three cents, especially when there are gummi bears, Swedish Berries, and, my personal favourite, Kraft Caramels to be had for just a penny apiece?

My childhood love affair with Kraft Caramels -- light only, thank you very much -- was intense.  This was candy that knew how to entice: the transparent wrapper is genius, the junk food equivalent of a beautiful woman wearing an outfit that reveals just a hint of décolletage.  Giddy with anticipation, I'd remove the wrapper, pop the candy in my mouth, and resist the urge to chew.  Some pleasures must be savoured slowly to be appreciated properly.  Then I'd wait for those sweet, creamy, and vanilla notes to wash over my palate.  With uncharacteristic discipline, I would occasionally consume an entire caramel without so much as a single bite -- the square of caramel would just dissolve away into nothing.  Ordinarily, however, I would abandon self control and rip into the candy with my teeth.

What's black and white and read all over? el Bulli's cantaloupe caviar (and me!)

What can I say?  Word gets around.

First, Toronto Life asks me to do some writing for them.  I say sure.  Then, out of the blue, I get a request to participate in a Globe and Mail article by Beppi Crosariol on molecular gastronomy for the home cook after being referred by Clement of A La Cuisine.  It's all pretty damn cool, and I just can't refuse.

I even prepared some refreshing cantaloupe caviar to be photographed for the piece.  Seeing as I spend most of my mornings in a daze, I was oblivious to the fact that the article was in yesterday's paper until Rachel emailed me.   A quick sprint to the newsstand revealed that a photo of my cantaloupe caviar even made the front page of Canada's newspaper of record, right above the banner.  Sweet!

Welcome to those of you visiting for the first time after reading the Globe article.  If you'd like more information about molecular gastronomy in general, click here, and for a quick tour of my molecular gastronomy pantry check out this post.  I also encourage you to explore frozen chocolate air, Nutella powder, and the the dish that kick-started my interest in molecular gastronomy, white chocolate and caviar.  For a whiff of controversy, nothing beats el Bulli's deep fried rabbit ears.  If you'd like to experiment with molecular gastronomy at home and are looking for an easy to prepare, delicious, familiar flavour, look no further than Moto's donut soup.  For those whose interests veer towards liquid spheres (aka liquid ravioli), we've written about liquid pea ravioli, mango ravioli with coconut cream and ground rice, or you can just keep on reading this post about melon caviar.  We also write extensively about cooking and dining in Toronto, as well as a host of other food-related topics.  Molecular gastronomy is much, but not all of what we do.

These melon caviar are my third kick at the spherification can, so I'm beginning to feel like something of an old pro by now.  Even so, the caviar are, in many ways, easier to make than full-sized spheres, which have a nasty tendency to burst during the "cooking" process.  If anything, caviar are subject to the opposite problem: they need so little time in the calcium chloride solution that they sometimes completely solidify.

Dying to make them?  The melon caviar recipe is available here.  To make cantaloupe juice, simply dice a cantaloupe, drop it in your blender, and liquefy.  It's all very straightforward from there.  By the way, the photo of me hunched over that tiny bowl in the Globe article is partially for show.  Yes, I made perfectly good caviar that way, but it is easier -- assuming you're not making them as part of a photo shoot -- to use a bigger vessel.  Also, if playing with two syringes is not your cup of tea, there are devices made specifically for mass producing these caviar.  There's even an el Bulli demonstration video that comes with a recipe for apple caviar.

The final dish is garnished with passion fruit seeds and a sprig of mint.  Visually, these delicate pearls are stunning -- a light, vaguely translucent shade of coral (click here to view the el Bulli catalogue photo).  The taste is straightforward melon and, when "cooked" properly, that taste explodes onto the palate as each caviar bursts in the mouth.  Rachel and I had some leftover prosciutto, so we tried a molecular gastronomy version of an Italian staple, melon and prosciutto.  The combination loses nothing in translation, as long as the melon is sweet enough to contrast the ham's saltiness, though this is an issue with this dish whatever the preparation.

My plan to conquer all media is unfolding nicely.  Internet.  Check.  Magazines.  Check.  Newspapers.  Check.  I believe television is next. Food Network, make me an offer, and it better not involve Unwrapped.

Ear-resistible: el Bulli's deep fried rabbit ears with aromatic herbs

It's hard to keep your eyes off two bloody ears joined by a strip of fur, trust me.  I suppose the instinct that compels us to stare at a bag of bunny scalps is the same force that makes us slow down for a glimpse of a traffic accident or any potentially grisly scene: morbid curiosity.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I felt troubled the first time I saw them. There's something about rabbit ears.  Most of us have managed to distance ourselves from the brutality behind our meals. We're so inured to the sight of a steak or a chicken breast, that we've become disconnected from the fact that an animal had to be killed and butchered to produce them.  But rabbit ears go beyond even that.

The problem is cuteness.  A cow is not always cute.  A crimson slab of meat certainly isn't.  But a pair of bunny ears is an altogether different story. Not only are rabbits cute, their ears are an essential part of their cuteness, perhaps even its essence.  Looking at steak calls to mind images of summer barbecues; looking at big, floppy rabbit ears conjures up happy childhood memories of Bugs Bunny or the Easter Bunny.

By turning adorable into dinner -- or at least a surprisingly delicious snack -- el Bulli's deep fried rabbit ears with aromatic herbs (click here to see the el Bulli catalogue photo), from the el Bulli 2003-2004 cookbook, challenge our assumptions about food.  Eating game, and doing so respectfully by being frugal and eating as much of an animal as possible, is a deeply rooted tradition in most parts of the world.  Spain is no exception, and Rachel and I vividly remember the arresting sights of the butcher stalls specializing in offal and game meats in Barcelona's La Boqueria market.

Ravioli without borders, Part II: Liquid mango ravioli with coconut foam and toasted rice

Inspiration is everywhere in Toronto.  The dish that inspired these mango spheres with coconut foam and toasted rice powder is a dessert Rachel and I have eaten countless times, Salad King's mango sticky rice.

Salad King is one of Toronto's most popular Thai restaurants.  Nestled just off Yonge Street, it's a popular hangout for student and office worker alike, who fill every last seat around Salad King's gleaming stainless steel cafeteria tables to devour some of the best cheap eats in town.  I'm partial to the panang curry and Thai basil noodles; Rachel reserves a special spot in her heart and stomach for green curry.

For years, we've finished our Salad King meals with our favourite dessert, mango sticky rice.  It's a charmingly simple, almost rustic dish: just some savoury steamed rice, sweetened coconut cream, and ripe mango, a perfect send-off before the brisk trip home on a cool night.

After eating this dish for the umpteenth time, I began to toy with the idea of deconstructing it.  It's not as easy as it sounds.  There are only so many ways to reconfigure rice, coconut milk, and mango.  As my interest in molecular gastronomy blossomed, my exposure to ever more ingenious ways to deconstruct flavours and dishes made reinterpreting the coconut and mango elements a less daunting task.  For the coconut I turned to my trusty iSi cream whipper, having already made a decadent coconut espuma for el Bulli's piña colada, although I adapted a different foam, which includes heavy cream, from El Bulli: 1998-2002 for this dish.

Nachismo: el Bulli's Doritos croquant polvoron

Some members of the fooderati look down their noses at Doritos and other junk food, but let's be honest here: Doritos rule!  Salty, cheesy, and mildly spicy, they are flat out addictive. There are times (and perhaps it's best I not elaborate on what times I'm talking about), when the craving for a Dorito is so strong I swear I can hear the siren song of a large bag of Sweet Chili Heat beckoning me to crash on its crunchy shores.

So you've got to love the cojones (by the way, how do you say "balls" in Catalan?) of Ferran Adria for even thinking he can improve on the humble Dorito.  Adria's solution: polvorones.  What's a polvoron?  It's a Filipino dessert made by mixing toasted flour with melted butter, powdered milk (or baby formula, apparently), and a little lemon or vanilla extract, then molding the mixture into bite-size cakes using a polvoron stamper.  For an overview of the process, click here.  For a recipe, click here.