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Mushrooms, noble as they may be, are not proud creatures. Poking their heads up from the loam, they stand humbly with a prepossessing calm that more or less begs us to pluck them. Fresh eggs, once you face off the fierce gaze of the hen and pull them from under her warm breast, are similarly good-natured, understated and half-smiling like the oval face of a Modigliani portrait. But dress the egg and the mushroom with a pinch of black truffle and the two rise up, swell with pride, and regale you with their tales of farm and forest.

The chicken is in the oven—heat forming a golden crust that seals in the juices, salt working its silent alchemy within, denaturing some of the proteins in tough muscles making those parts more tender and flavorful. Roasting is the easiest way to cook chicken and the tastiest. All that is required to reach perfection is time and the perfect salt. Sugpo Asin, a king among salts, glowing rose-cloud white, lush and firmly crunchy, with dulcet brine notes that play lavishly (but with discipline) against the sweet tamed gaminess of poultry, honors this basic meat and vegetable meal as all basic meals should be honored—asserting the preeminence of simple home cooking as the cornerstone of eating well.

Barbecued ribs are a delicacy born of the ingenuity of the poorest—the slaves and servants who were tossed bones by their masters and transformed gristly, fatty “spare ribs” into a complex delicious, finger-sucking feast—the New World equivalent of the French potage. The trick to cooking ribs is keeping them moist: brining is a must. Even the most delicious housemade bacon would envy the subtle woodsy notes infused from the smoked salt used in this brine. Bacony ribs glazed with a rich and spicy sauce: it’s like Christmas in July.

If the restaurants that produce them are any indication, the superlative steaks of the world cannot be reduced to a simple formula. Consider Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte in Paris, where the brisk waiter actually serves you half a steak, then gives the other half to another person, and then, just as you are finishing the last bite of your first half, he brings you another half-steak right off the grill—a miraculous second coming. Consider Raoul’s in New York, where the experience of eating is suffused by an equally savory experience of sitting, drinking, observing, and conversing. The only way to rival these folks is to take matters into your own hands: an excellent steak, the best pepper, the perfect salt, and thou. Tomes have been written on how to cook a steak. Precious little has been said on how to salt one. To cook: start with a lot of heat, finish with a little. Do the opposite with the salt: cook with no salt at all, or very little, if you really must have some. When the steak is served, choose the most beautiful sel gris you can find and let fly.

There is only one ingredient that is used in every burger recipe. It is not the all-beef patty (burgers can be made from pork, ostrich, bison, portobello, soy, lamb, turkey); it’s not the sesame seed bun (there is baguette, millet loaf, no bun at all); it’s not the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, etcetera, etcetera. All are optional. It’s salt. You cannot make a great burger without it. I’ve never seen a recipe that didn’t call for anywhere from a pinch to a teaspoon. Yet rarely if ever does a recipe name specifically which salt might be the best one for the job. Salt should improve a burger in three ways. It should expand the fullness and complexity of the meat’s own flavor by lending complementary mineral depth. It should produce a layering of flavors, presenting more or less of itself unpredictably with every bite. It should lend a crunch of texture that calls attention to itself by contrasting with the succulence of the meat and signaling the flavor dynamics of the sandwich to your mind and your palate. In other words, it should do its work, do it in a disciplined manner, and communicate the work it has done effectively. Sel gris is chunky, moist, and packed with fresh minerals—perfect for the job.

We embrace the urge to grill as a rogue moment of atavism in modern life. Our primitive faculties at play, we become dissatisfied with our indoor culinary selves. Flattening a split chicken under a brick of 500-million-year-old salt and cooking it quickly over an open fire makes good on all that grilling has to offer: simplicity and dramatic impact. The salt block compresses the poultry, making it cook more quickly and seasoning it at the same time. The result is a novel flash-fired flavor, crackling crisp skin, and firmer textured meat that reinvigorates the experience of eating chicken as an authentic form of self-expression. See page 267 for more on using salt blocks.

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.

The plump pink flesh of a salmon needs so little to bring it to life that many people call it quits before they’ve tested its limits. The smoky-sweet flakes of Cyprus hardwood smoked lend an explosive crunch that brings a whole new vocabulary to the language of fish. The salt’s cleanliness penetrates through the richer flavors, adding depth to breadth; its pastrylike crackle gives the palate something firm to hold onto amid the fish’s sometime incessant unctuousness; and its lilt of golden smoke brings an oakiness that incandesces on your palate long after the fish has left the fire.

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 can find ground bean sauce, a gloopy paste of fermented soybeans, salt, sugar, and sesame oil, in Asian grocery stores or order a jar online.

The cart’s owner wants to keep his recipes under wraps, so the following is an approximation of one of his signature dishes.