Category: Umami

I had not thought of Stroganoff in years. If ever I had even made beef Stroganoff, I don’t remember it. But, a couple of weeks ago, the New York Times mentioned beef Stroganoff in its beautiful weekly column, “What to Cook This Week.” Once you get Stroganoff in your head, you might as well give up. You’re going to make some.

I’ve made it twice since the New York Times piece. I used the faux ground beef version of Quorn. Much of the appeal is the egg noodles. I had not had egg noodles in years. If I’ve ever even bought egg noodles, I don’t recall it. I’ve probably acquired a new bad habit. Oh well. Too bad.

You could use any good recipe for beef Stoganoff or hamburger Stroganoff, but you might need to consider some minor changes. Recipes probably will have you brown the beef first, then set it aside while you cook the mushrooms. Since Quorn doesn’t release any fat, I’d suggest changing the order. First, cook and brown your mushrooms in olive oil. Set them aside. Then gently brown your Quorn in olive oil. Then add your flour and brown that along with the Quorn. Then deglaze the pan with white wine or stock, and put the mushrooms back in. If you didn’t use stock, I suggest adding some Better Than Bouillon to give the gravy more oomph and brownness. At this point you should have browned Quorn and browned mushrooms in a thick gravy. For the final touch, you can use sour cream, crème fraîche, or even heavy cream. I used Greek yoghurt.

Most recipes will call for mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Mustard is probably more authentic. But I found that I prefer a touch of tomato sauce (or tomato paste) instead. The red improves the richness of the brown and adds some umami.

I mentioned beef Stroganoff to some neighbors a few days ago, and, like me, they had not thought of it for years. They made some the next day. Resistance is futile.

It’s the mushrooms and gravy and noodles, really, that make this dish, as far as I’m concerned. You could even double the mushrooms and not go wrong.

That’s miso broth in the cup, and fermented black beans in the jar.

I have encountered two big challenges in trying to improve my competence with Chinese cuisine: wok cooking and the sauces.

Recipes for Chinese dishes may call for one or more of an array of Chinese sauces that some of us have never even heard of. It’s then tempting just to give up on Asian cuisine and not even try a recipe, because of the sauce mystery. For example, here is a list of sauces gleaned from Wikipedia: Douban sauce, hoisin sauce, mala sauce, mee pok sauce, oyster sauce, peach sauce, plum sauce, soy sauce, and shacha sauce.

Part of what’s sophisticated about Chinese cooking, though, is what I call the sense of sauce. A sense of sauce is one of the things that makes French (and Irish) cooking so good. Of course, the Irish also have Kerry butter.

With Chinese sauces, I find that some are essential and must be store bought (soy sauce, for example). But many can be made at home. If you lack an ingredient, just improvise. You probably already have what you need to make hoisin sauce. Oyster sauce can be improvised, even a vegan version.

I improvise shamelessly. I’m not ashamed to use ingredients that are traditionally Japanese, or even African, in Chinese food. Pepper paste, for example, is pretty much pepper paste. That which isn’t entirely authentic can at least be good. It’s all about umami. All sorts of things that you already have in your kitchen are useful for improvisation: blackstrap molasses, many types of vinegar, raisins (whizzed in a food processor), and any type of pepper sauce (I use harissa sauce). One of my inauthentic secret weapons is Better Than Bouillon, which will add a lot of oomph and color to a sauce that calls for water, allowing you to reduce the amount of soy sauce.

With black bean sauce, there is no improvisation. You’ve got to have the real thing. The black beans are not the same as what we call black beans here. They’re actually a type of soybean. They’re fermented, and it’s the fermentation that gives the beans their sassy taste. I couldn’t find fermented black beans even at Whole Foods, but Amazon has them.

So if a Chinese recipe calls for a sauce, and you don’t have it, Google for a recipe. Then improvise. As for wok cooking, it’s like breadmaking and getting to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice.

The tofu and vegetables here ended up in a black bean sauce.

Walnut pâté, mashed rutabaga, and Brussels sprouts gratin

Rutabaga loves Brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts love Roquefort. Roquefort loves walnuts. There you have it. A menu for a snow day.

It’s amazing what you can get away with if you banish carbs. Not only have I maintained the summer diet that got me into shape for hiking in Scotland, I’ve continued to lose weight at the rate of about a pound a month after I got home. And not only do I not feel hungry. I also feel like I’m overeating, even though I’m not. We’re all different, though. Other people’s mileage may vary. But if you say goodbye to bread and pasta and sweets, something alchemical happens.

Rutabaga: For now, at least, turnips and rutabagas are the new potatoes in this house. A couple of weeks ago I made mashed potatoes for the first time in months. I was expecting a treat, but instead I found the potatoes cloyingly sweet. They actually tasted as though they had sugar in them. They were good potatoes, too — organic Yukon gold potatoes, mashed with butter and cream. I realized that I had enjoyed a recent pot of turnips much more. Last week at the grocery store, I intended to buy turnips. But the rutabagas were 50 percent cheaper, so I bought rutabagas instead. I boil them with a minimum of water and mash them with butter, salt, and pepper.

Walnut pâté: Nuts are a staple on low-carb vegetarian diets. Walnut pâté is as easy as pie. Throw walnuts, celery, onion, garlic, and seasonings into the food processor, with tahini as a binder. I added a tiny whiff of sage.

Roquefort Brussels sprouts gratin: I always have Roquefort in the fridge, though it usually goes into salad dressing (with lots of garlic). But Roquefort makes an excellent gratin if combined with parmesan. Today’s gratin also included milk and cream, in a buttered baking dish.

I go through stages, and I may well be back to making cinnamon rolls sooner or later. But, for now, trading carbs for low-carb pig-outs feels like a very good deal.

Brussels sprouts gratin with Roquefort, parmesan, milk and cream

As I mentioned in the previous post on Polish pierogi, if you can’t make things authentic, at least you can make things good. The fact that we don’t have either the skills or the ingredients to do exotic cuisines authentically doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take inspiration from those cuisines and do the best we can. There’s an analogy to musicianship. The fact that we’re not all professional musicians and didn’t go to Juilliard should never stop us from making the best homemade music that we can make.

But back to the kitchen.

For the chow mein, I used whole wheat linguini for the pasta. The vegetables are broccoli, carrots, cabbage, onion, red pepper, celery, and garlic. The sauce is a combination of soy sauce, rice vinegar, honey, vegetable bouillon paste, and harissa sauce, which is a Tunisian pepper sauce that I always stock. I always have soy sauce and rice vinegar, but that’s about all I ever have that’s specifically Chinese.

No wok? A big skillet will do.

Just from experimentation, I think I have at least partly figured out the secret of wok cooking (using a big skillet). The reason you need high heat is to quickly boil away the water that leaks from the vegetables. The presence of water being converted to steam greatly lowers the temperature. But once the vegetables slow down on leaking water, you must be very careful and work quickly lest things get too hot. Once the wok starts to dry out, the browning process begins. You want the vegetables as dry as you can get them without overcooking them, and you want as much brown as you can get, because that’s where the umami is. Practice is required. It alls happens very fast. But this chow mein left no vegetable water in the bottom of the plate (or in the wok). The shiny brown color comes not only from the brownness of the sauces (which also must be largely boiled off by high heat), but also from the browning of the vegetables. The cooking oil makes everything shine.

Tofu would have gone very nicely with this. But I had roasted peanuts as a second course.

Szechuan-style foo yung with yellow squash and store-bought pot stickers.

The chickens are laying so well and I am so rich with eggs that I’ve been eating far too much egg foo yung — and, of course, running experiments. This is a post about Szechuan-style sauce. It’s also a post about MSG.

First, about MSG.

I cannot find any scientific reason for being afraid of MSG. Glutamates occur naturally in many foods, especially the tasty ones such as mushrooms and roquefort. As far as I tell, MSG these days is made through a natural fermentation process. I’ll leave you to read up on all that, though, if you’re interested in the rehabilitation of MSG. As for me, I am increasingly convinced that MSG has its place in a healthy, clean-cooking kitchen.

Last week, while sautéeing onions, I added half a teaspoon of MSG, and within a couple of minutes the onions turned very brown, though the heat was low. (I never cook with high heat unless I’m boiling water.) I Googled and couldn’t find a word about any browning capabilities of MSG. But then I read the Wikipedia article, and, sure enough, MSG will get involved in the Maillard reaction — the browning of food. The Wikipedia article says that this occurs under high heat in the presence of sugar, but I can testify that the heat I use is not high, and that the onions brown — very fast! — under much lower heat, and much quicker, than onions would otherwise brown. Onions work well for this, because there is far more sugar in onions than we might think. Now this easy browning is pure alchemy! Not only are your sautéed vegetables nice and brown, the sautée process also leaves a nice brown glaze in the pan which cries out to be deglazed into a savory sauce.

I have been making a Szechuan-style sauce using harisa paste, a pepper paste that actually is Tunisian in origin. I buy it at Whole Foods. But who cares if we mix our regional cuisines. Pepper paste is pepper paste. As readers here know, I almost never write up recipes, because most of the time I don’t use recipes. But the general idea is: Deglaze the sautée pan by bringing some rice vinegar to a boil. Add honey, soy sauce, a little toasted sesame oil, and pepper paste. Reduce it until it foams. It makes a great sauce for tofu, vegetables, foo yung, or whatever.

The pot stickers, by the way, come from the freezer department at Trader Joe’s. They are sold as Thai Gyoza. But I prefer to call them pot stickers. I have tried to make pot stickers, but I just don’t have the touch, and they come out too big and heavy. The Trader Joe’s pot stickers are vegetarian and very reasonably priced.

Onions, sautéed over medium heat until soft

The same onions, same heat, about three minutes after adding a half teaspoon of MSG

Like most photos on this blog, clicking on the image will bring up a higher-resolution version.

Searing cabbage is an Asian touch, and it’s smart. Searing brings out the best flavors in cabbage. Nor do you have to scorch it. Cabbage browns easily with moderate heat and no smoking, as long as you use an oil (such as sunflower oil) suitable for the heat.

I made this dish with pasta. My Celtic digestive system gets along with wheat much better than with rice, but your mileage may vary. Slice the cabbage as thin as possible. Sear it in a skillet until it’s nicely browned. Proudly sneak in some monosodium glutamate, about 1/8 or 1/4 teaspoon per serving. You don’t need to add any salt. Make a sauce by trickling water into miso until it’s the thickness of gravy. Proudly sneak in a dash of ketchup. To the cooked pasta, add olive oil, some toasted walnuts, some parmesan, and some raisins. Pile the pasta and cabbage on a plate, then spoon some of the sauce over both of them. There’s more than enough salt in the miso alone.

The umami here comes from the monosodium glutamate, the miso, the parmesan, the ketchup and probably from the browned cabbage as well, since the umami flavor is a very brown flavor. I’m not going to include any apologetics here on the use of monosodium glumatate, which I’ve blogged about several times. In fact, I’m creating a new category of posts named “Umami.” I am of the opinion — until I see scientific evidence that might change my mind — that monosodium glutamate is a natural and harmless product that can do wonders for food and that deserves to be rehabilitated. I’m on a quest to get more umami into my cooking. Being snobbish about things like ketchup or monosodium glutamate serves no purpose. Are the Scottish snobbish about sheep bones? We must work with what’s available.

In my first post on umami, I mentioned that I would see if I could find some MSG at Whole Foods and also pick up some kombu seaweed, which is said to be high in umami.

Whole Foods is just about as MSG free as it is possible to be. I asked a spice captain if they carry any form of MSG. He was vaguely aware of the concept of umami and the doubts about the decades-long demonization of MSG, but the answer was still no. No MSG.

When the the guy at the cash register asked me if I found everything I was looking for, I said, “Everything but MSG.” He looked me like I was an alien. When I gave him a brief summary of the case that MSG is not as bad as we’ve been taught to believe and said that I want to experiment with it, I think he thought I was some kind of crank. Oh well. I did at least get some kombu seaweed.

Then I started shopping on Amazon for MSG, reading the reviews and other material to see if any brand said explicitly that it’s made by natural fermentation. One brand, Aji-No-Moto, does say on its web site that the MSG in the United States is made from the fermentation of corn sugar. Still, I wanted to buy MSG from an American company. McCormick & Company sells MSG. They’re an old American company, started in Baltimore, and still have their corporate offices in Maryland. I called them up, told them I’m a blogger, and asked about the source of their MSG. The consumer division passed me to the commercial division, and the commercial division passed me to the regulatory division. They were all very nice, but no one seemed to have any information about the source of their MSG. I decided to just go ahead and order some McCormick MSG from Amazon. I’ll post in the future about my experiments with MSG and what kind of alchemy it’s capable of in the kitchen.

But I can tell you this. MSG is sold in very large commercial quantities to somebody, and I seriously doubt that only Asian restaurants use it. Restaurants that use it probably have to keep it secret. But the demonization or even the rehabilitation of MSG is not my agenda. It’s just that I can’t help but be interested in a natural, apparently harmless substance that apparently can make such a difference in food. I’ve just got to experiment with it in my own kitchen…

Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland, where I’ve had some wonderful meals and long for more.

As I recall, I encountered the idea of umami a few years ago, but I didn’t pay much attention because I assumed that it was not for real. But this week, while having an email conversation with a friend (thanks, Dean) about my post on Scotch broth, I realized that the idea of umami as a “fifth taste” is very real. The concept of umami also explains some major mysteries in the kitchen.

First, so that I don’t have to repeat the basics about what umami is and what kind of foods contain it, here are links to a couple of articles. The first is the Wikipedia article, and the second is a Wall Street Journal article from 2007.

Aha! Now I know why that sneaky, barely noticeable dash of ketchup wakes up certain dishes. Now I know why I can’t reproduce Scotch broth without sheep bones. Now I understand why it’s difficult to reproduce Asian cooking at home. Now I know why I look longingly at that bottle of tamari (soy sauce) in the refrigerator door but avert my eyes for fear of adding too much salt. Now I understand why miso is so addictive.

And now that we understand umami, what are we going to do about it, especially those of us who tend toward vegetarianism?

For one, it may be time to rethink our demonization of MSG (monosodium glutamate). Though the chemical name sounds scary, it’s actually made from natural fermentation, and it seems that no studies have confirmed its bad rap. So I think that on my next trip to Whole Foods, I’ll see if they carry some form of MSG that is guaranteed to be naturally fermented rather than synthesized. And though I’m no great fan of the taste of seaweed, I also will get some kombu and see what I can do with it.

The theory of umami also explains a mystery about the British Isles that I’ve puzzled over for a long time. Why does English and Welsh cooking tend to be so bland and Irish and Scottish cooking so savory? Solution: The Irish understand umami — in particular the arts of broth-making and sauce-making. Umami probably has to do with why Christopher Kimball, editor of Cook’s Illustrated, says that cooking isn’t easy. You can get cooking 99 percent right, but without that tiny kick of umami, food fails to be thrilling.

Only recently did I realize that miso is a living fermented food, like yogurt or sauerkraut. I had observed for many years that recipes usually warn you to add the miso last to soups and not to boil it, but no recipe ever said why, and it had not occurred to me to wonder. I figured it was just one of those things that recipes thoughtlessly repeat though no one knows a reason for it, like not lifting the lid on rice while it’s cooking.

But now I know. Miso is a living fermented food, therefore we must eat it, even if it is salty. But eating miso is not a chore. It makes a great stock for soups. It also enables quick winter soups, because you don’t have to simmer all day to get a proper stock. A friend recommends borscht made with miso. I will try that later today. Miso also makes a great little cup of hot broth. Just add a teaspoon or so to hot water.

The stuff is pricey. I paid more than $9 for a pound of miso yesterday at Whole Foods. Partly I think this is Whole Foods’ high markup. A friend gets the same brand in Asheville for between $6 and $7 a pound. But a little miso goes a long way, and it will keep in the refrigerator for half of eternity. Whole Foods carries about four varieties of miso, I believe, made by Miso Master in Asheville.