Dairy

I have to admit, it was a little strange writing a recipe for breakfast tacos, as much as I love them, because I think of them as so free-form. In my college days in Austin, when I powered my way to class by eating a couple of these every morning, I would change up the order pretty much each time. Cheese and salsa are must-haves, but otherwise my favorite combination is potato, egg, and chorizo. But you can also add (or substitute) black beans, avocado, bacon, and the like, in whatever lineup gets you going. Leftover breakfast foods, such as hash browns, are welcome additions, too. This makes two hefty tacos: a hearty breakfast or brunch.

One of Austin’s oldest restaurants is the venerable Texas Chili Parlor; its motto is “E Pluribus Chili,” and its signature dish comes in three levels of heat: X, XX, and XXX. The X is fantastic: plenty spicy, but you can still taste the other flavors. To my taste, XX is just slightly over the line between hot and too hot. And the XXX—well, let’s just say they make you sign a waiver before you can order it, and I never have. Besides the basic chili, my favorite item on the menu is the cheese enchiladas topped with the chili. They call them Frieda’s Enchiladas, and in all the years I went there, I never asked who Frieda was. I guess my mouth was always full, on fire, or both. This is my interpretation based on countless samplings. Now, this recipe may make enough for two servings, depending on your appetite and whether you eat beans and rice on the side, but I confess: I’m usually a four-enchilada man, meaning I have to commit to some extra time at the gym, but it’s worth it.

My brother Michael once told me the two questions I should ask anyone who claims to make real (i.e., Texasstyle) chili. Question one: What kind of beans do you put in it? Question two: What kind of tomatoes do you use? Both are trick questions, of course, because the answer to both is none. There are no beans and no tomatoes in real Texas chili. The full name is “chili con carne,” and that’s what it means: chile peppers with meat, and very little else. When done right, it’s a beautiful thing. With only one kind of chile and at least 6 hours of simmering, it’s got the round flavors and slow-burning heat that define a “bowl o’ red.” If you want something hotter, add up to 1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper, or to taste. I usually make at least two servings, because after eating the first one (with saltines, grated Cheddar cheese, chopped onions, and, okay, even pinto beans as long as they’re on the side), I love the second serving on a hot dog or burger, or as part of enchiladas (page 64).

When I was growing up, one of my mother’s holiday specialties was something she called “Texas Salad,” similar to something others call taco salad, although hers didn’t include ground beef. It was basically a head of iceberg lettuce, a couple cans of pinto beans, a block of Cheddar cheese, a bag of Fritos, and a whole bottle of Catalina French-style dressing, along with a red onion and a tomato or two. Okay, here’s my confession: I loved it, the first day more than the second (although others in my family would say the reverse). My tastes have gotten a little more sophisticated since then, but I still appreciate what my Mom was going for: sweet and sour, crunchy and fresh, a little protein, and a little fat. I’ve had fun updating it, but, Mom, you’ll notice, I’ve kept all your principles intact.

One of my college hangouts was a scruffy Austin restaurant called Les Amis, which my friends and I called “Lazy Me,” in honor of the decidedly unhelpful service. The food was dependable even if the waitstaff wasn’t, and a standby for me was a simple bowl of black beans, rice, and cheese, priced so even students without trust funds could afford it. Later, I learned that the combination of beans and rice is one of the most nutritionally complete vegetarian meals possible. While beans are one of the vegetables that takes better to canning than others, if you make a pot of your own from scratch (page 47), the taste and texture are incomparable. When Les Amis finally closed, torn down to make room for a new Starbucks, I missed not just the peasant’s bowl, but those inattentive waitresses, too.

For the longest time, chile relleno was my favorite dish, and, really, what’s not to like? A cheese-stuffed poblano pepper, battered and fried, with a spicy sauce? Bring it on, right? Making it at home was a different story: Dipping that delicate pepper in the batter without the stuffing falling out was, well, beyond me. This version may seem involved, but believe me, compared to the traditional version, it’s positively streamlined. I like an almost burrito-like filling, with starchy rice or farro included, but there’s no egg binder, no batter, no oil to heat up (and splatter everywhere). It’s oven-roasted and vegetarian, but spicy and cheesy all the same. Eat with a small salad if you like.

Try as I might, I just couldn’t leave the bacon out of this omelet. Obviously, nothing goes better with eggs. But beyond that, bacon gives the slightly bitter chard an addictive smoky and, well, meaty flavor, while the goat cheese offsets it all with a tart creaminess. The result: a hearty, one-dish meal.

The sheep is one of the first animals domesticated by mankind. For about ten thousand years, we’ve been living together and feeding each other. The true testament to the strength of our relationship is that it hasn’t changed much. The passion is still alive. One secret to this longlived tryst is that sheep are uniquely unwilling to give up their sheepy flavor, so that every time we eat them it’s like a first date, or the first time, or an earlier time, or a mythic time. We’ve domesticated the gaminess out of most everything we eat, but every time we toss a leg of lamb on the fire we grow bushy and wild, our countenance waxing fierce amid the ghostly tendrils of burning fat and smoky mountain herbs. And after we toil over the flaming coals, the table is laid, the tapers lit, the dark wine poured. Aromatic and rackling—golden on the outside; savagely, voluptuously rosy on the inside—a leg of lamb is a meal of the ages. Salting a leg of lamb should be approached with anticipation and reverence; this is one of the truly sacred uses of a coarse and lusciously moist salt—in other words, sel gris—in both the cooking and the inishing of the food. Any good, moist sel gris will work here, but I cannot resist calling for my own true love, the rather obscure but sublimely supple salt we have adopted as our house sel gris at The Meadow. The zesty flavors of Parameswaran’s pepper—a whirl of eucalyptus, celery seed, lemon peel, and cedar—is likewise a point of precision that can lend yet more depth to the flavors of the dish.

Sometimes ingredients make strange bedfellows. Chocolate and cheese are not the most natural mates, but when the cheese is a heady, acidic, barnyard-fresh goat’s milk cheese and the chocolate is bits of roasted cocoa bean, unsweetened and compact as an espresso bean, unexpected things happen. You get something more. But you can’t quite tell what. The flavors square off, then shift, then subvert one another. Then they take a pause. The air is thick with tension, but nothing stirs. Suddenly, like a gunshot comes the massive crunch of Cyprus black flake sea salt and everything is movement. It all becomes clear in an instant: a dish that’s as comforting as grandma’s chicken potpie and yet uncivilly decadent. . . . A secret pleasure of serving this dish is watching even the most well-bred guest slyly supplement each bite with an added pinch of black salt crystals.

This is our take on a somewhat composed cheese dessert for Ssäm Bar.

We use Benton’s bacon, the meatiest, smokiest bacon around, in our plugs. If you have the Momofuku cookbook, you know the wonders and glories of Allan Benton, the man behind the smoky cured pork down in Madisonville, Tennessee. His product reigns supreme in punch-you-in-the-face bacon flavor. When he answers the phone himself to take your order, you know you are getting a handmade, superior product from a man who loves his art and keeps it simple—even though he has orders from all over the country to fill that day, many from big-name chefs and restaurants in NYC and beyond. I have been known to swap cookies for moonshine with this adorable man—both of us feeling like we’ve made out like bandits.

In February 2008, I traveled with Dave to Deauville, France, for the third annual Omnivore Food Festival. The two of us were like fish out of water in this off-season beach town. Straight off the plane from New York and jet-lagged, we were left to our own devices in the tiny, remote town to gather Asian ingredients for a kimchi demo. We agreed to wake up at 6 a.m. the next day to get breakfast and get going. We met drowsy and confused in the empty hotel lobby and proceeded to sleepwalk through the ghost town until we could smell fresh-baked bread and saw a light on in the only bakery in town. Dave took charge and pointed at nearly everything in the joint, as that’s how we eat when we’re abroad. “I’m full” is not a phrase you’re allowed to use—such is the price of traveling with chef Dave Chang. We found a bench outside and unwrapped this mound of bread that looked like it had some sort of creamy gravy inside. Still half-asleep, we wrestled the filled bread ball out of the bag and bit in. When you are having a food moment, it’s like tasting food for the first time. Your eyes open wide and then close, as if in slow motion. You chew as if no food with flavor has ever touched your tongue before and what you are eating at that very moment is what will shape all future food opinions you will ever have. That was our 6:05 a.m. February morning in Deauville. Neither of us speaks French, so we decided to call it what it was, a volcano—an explosion of potato, lardons, and cheese like no other. We raced each other to the bakery every subsequent morning that week. And on the plane ride home, we agreed that if and when we opened a bakery, it must serve our very own volcano.

Mascarpone cheese is a little fussy. It breaks really easily, so it is important here to make sure that both the lemon curd and the mascarpone are cold. Don’t even think about overmixing this!

We made this dessert because of our love for Thai tea sweetened just the way the Thai do, with sweetened condensed milk. We got so many compliments on it that we left it on the Ssäm Bar dessert menu for over a year, which we almost never do. To this day, we still get requests for it. While the ingredients here are off the beaten path of your average pantry, they can easily be found in Chinatown or a Latin market or at amazon.com.

This is the first croissant we ever made and sold at Milk Bar. Deeply stinky and pungent in all the right ways, it is not for the faint of heart. It is a true marriage of funky, barnyardy, stringent kimchi and blue cheese, of our Korean roots to our Italian ones. It is for our soul sisters and brothers. Making croissants is one of the coolest bread techniques around. You spend time making many layers of bread dough and butter, folding and turning the dough all along. When baked, the croissants get their flakiness and volume from the steam that the layers of butter give off as the dough heats. The steam separates each dough layer ever so slightly, resulting in this massively puffy, impossibly flaky creation. And when you make them with a flavored butter, they’re even cooler! Though we have simplified the technique somewhat at Milk Bar, in terms of speed and precision, this recipe is still not for softbodies. It takes more time with the dough, more flour, more time with the rolling pin. But it will make you feel like a true pro when the oven timer goes off and you pull these bad boys out.

Have you ever had a turkey croissandwich on an airplane, or in a country club, or at a catered corporate event? The ones made with mass-produced croissants and stuffed with turkey cut in half? We always want to like them, but they’re always so disappointing. So we came up with one we love. The mustard croissant is very similar to the kimchi croissant in technique, but it is stuffed with meat, cheese, and condiments instead of blue cheese. You can substitute your favorite meat-and-cheese sandwich combo, if you prefer, for the turkey and Swiss.

You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to make a good banana cake. I’m talking about a sheet cake that tastes like banana bread, but not too dry, not too tough, and not dense and fudgy, like the dead center of banana bread can be at times. For weeks, maybe even a month, we worked on a banana cake in the basement of Ko. It felt like a lifetime—and still we weren’t getting anywhere close. That is, until Emily, our extern, came in with her mother’s sacred banana cake recipe. We adapted it, but this recipe belongs to the heart of her family. Mrs. Kritemeyer, we love you!

This recipe is simple yet magical. It will make you look like you paid $30,000 for a fancy culinary education when you dip the guava sorbet in it. It must be made right before you are going to use it, or it will set hard in your fridge, and trying to melt it back down and get it back to the perfect temperature will be the bane of your existence—the opposite of setting yourself up for success.