Gluten Free

A ballotine is a boneless cut of any meat, fowl, or fish, stuffed and wrapped into a bundle and braised. It is like a miniature galantine, except that a galantine is a more elaborate preparation involving the whole beast, or like a roulade, which is a simpler preparation of a piece of meat pounded thin and wrapped around something. All are a form of sausage, and the stuffing can be almost anything edible. Here, the wrap is chicken breast and the something is ham sausage. You might think of it as a sausage with a sausage filling. Fancy though it might sound, its preparation is not difficult, and the outcome is decidedly elegant. Because this is a dish where the chicken takes a lead roll, it is important to have the best-tasting chicken available: organic and with a fatty skin still on the breast. It’s the skin that makes the sausage unctuous. The cheesecloth wrap ensures that the breast remains moist throughout as it braises. I serve the ballotine warm for a main dish with the braising liquid reduced to a sauce. I also serve it chilled as an appetizer. To serve chilled, refrigerate the ballotine overnight still wrapped in cheesecloth. The next day, remove the wrap, slice thinly, and arrange on a platter. Accompany with cornichons, Dijon mustard, and baguette slices.

I first tasted this delight of Asian cooking in 1971, at The Mandarin, Cecilia Chiang’s celebrated fine-dining restaurant in San Francisco’s Ghirardelli Square. It was made with squab, rather than the more standard chicken. At the time, it was an anomaly, and an eye-opener to me about a rich and varied pan-Asian fare that I was just beginning to encounter. Since then, culinary relatives of that Chinese classic have become looked-for menu choices in the Thai, Lao, and Vietnamese restaurants that pepper American neighborhoods. The Southeast Asian versions, called laab, laap, larb, or larp, depending on who’s doing the translating, are basically refreshing sausage salads, sometimes made with pork, suitable for an appetizer or a meal, depending on how you want to serve them. They’re a cinch to make at home. Ground chicken works fine if you are not inclined to mince the meat with a chef’s knife. The advantage of the latter is that the sausage has a more defined texture. The roasted rice powder is an almost-secret treasure of Southeast Asian cuisine. It keeps its fragrance and savor for weeks, waiting in the cupboard for when you would like a dash of something different, subtle and nutty, on top of almost anything.

Crépinettes get their name from the veil fat that is used to wrap them. They were a classic at Pigby-the-Tail, one of the most requested of our sausages for uncountable neighborhood and family potlucks and summer grilling parties. It’s no wonder. A crépinette patty wrapped in its transparent caul with a whole basil leaf showing through is a thing of beauty. Caul fat is difficult to find, though that is changing with the renewed interest in charcuterie (see page 154). If you prefer to keep it simple, here is the modified recipe, caul optional. Made without caul, the crépinettes are equally delicious, though somewhat less mysterious without the umami the caul provides, and the lovely look is simulated by pressing a basil leaf on top of the patty just after cooking.

Shepherd’s pie is a signature dish in the pubs of England and Ireland, sometimes made with lamb, as here, and sometimes with beef, in which case it is called cottage pie. The idea is the same: a simple meat pie made with a mirepoix—onion, carrot, celery—under a top crust of mashed potatoes. There’s no cheese in the mashed potatoes, but when the pie is baked, the crust is somehow enriched through the alchemy of cooking and tastes as though there were. Shepherd’s pie is usually made with leftover cooked lamb. Swapping that for quick and easy homemade lamb sausage is my revisionism, to give the humble pie a fresh and lively taste. Also, to gussy it up, I use tiny pearl onions so the onion element has a more defined presence in the pie. The horseradish is also my whim, to give the dish an acrid lilt that helps lift it above what might otherwise be humdrum fare. Fresh horseradish root is often available in produce stores and supermarkets around Passover for Jewish customers; wasabi root, though not exactly the same botanically, is similar and it is available around the New Year for Japanese customers. Like fresh ginger, horseradish root can be stored in the refrigerator almost indefinitely, as long as it is kept dry.

The highland sheep of Scotland and Ireland graze in rugged terrain with sparse vegetation. Fittingly, the seasoning for a lamb sausage one might find in those northern isles is somewhat understated. A few well-chosen aromatics, along with salt and pepper, suffice to make a tasty sausage that evokes that landscape and its restrained fare.

When chorizo crossed the Straits of Gibraltar from Spain to North Africa, the meat of it, pork, was swapped for lamb. The mostly Muslim North Africans don’t eat pork. The feisty essence of chorizo was not lost in the translation, however: the seasonings remained pretty much the same, with regional and personal variations, as always. A touch of cinnamon here, dried whole red chiles instead of milder ground paprika, maybe some cumin, maybe not, and always garlic. On either side of the straits, it’s a vivacious sausage to use in dishes that want definite sausage input. Here is the lamb version called merguez; for the pork version, see page 24.

Although I’ve never been to Singapore, preparing this dish leads me there in fantasy. Heady with the fragrance and the flavors of India and Malaysia—cumin, fennel seeds, curry powder—and punctuated with coconut milk and almond, it parlays into a perfect balance of hot, sweet, salty, and sour. The touch of fresh lime juice for the sour element points toward the Southeast Asian contribution in a crossroads cuisine that translates smoothly to American kitchens.

Lamb sausage spiked with pine nuts and raisins, masterful fare from Turkey found around the Mediterranean, is exactly right for a summer grill party. The figs and fennel practically insist on being combined into a marmalade to accompany the lusty sausage. It can also be used as a compote for pork or chicken dishes or as a topping for toast or scones. If you happen to have a fig tree, or know someone who does, use its leaves to wrap the sausage. They impart an aroma and flavor of cinnamon that greatly enhances the lamb and evokes the Garden of Eden, after the Fall.

Nowadays, dolmas are standard fare throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Caucasus. But it is interesting to ponder how they became so in ancient lands that never had New World ingredients until seafarers carried them to the Old World on their return journeys. To complicate the story, they put ashore in Atlantic ports, so it was still a long trek to get to the eastern Mediterranean. Nonetheless, they did, once again demonstrating the scope and power of food as a pathway of global interconnections. Adding a bed of potatoes as infrastructure in this dolma is a particularly Greek touch, and a good one. The potatoes soak up the juices rendered as the vegetables cook and collapse into them, making a crude sauce on the bottom of the dish. I prefer green bell peppers, but it seems these days red bells are equally, if not more, favored, so I make a mix of them, including some yellow and orange ones that add sunny color to the array.

My love of rice paper began in childhood with candies that came packaged in colorful boxes, mostly pinkish and with children pictured gleefully jumping. Inside were gummy candies, chewable like jujubes, only softer. The fun part was unwrapping the outer paper and getting to the inside wrapping. At first it seemed like another layer of paper, a bit stiff like cellophane. But then you would pop the candy into your mouth and let the wrapping hydrate until soft enough to chew. I always found it a thrill “eating” my way from seemingly inedible paper to edible candy. So it is with rice paper wrappers for Vietnamese spring rolls” What seems at first glance a large plastic disk not for consumption, with hydration becomes supple enough to enfold all manner of comestibles.

A constant—an icon—of my Armenian American childhood were grape leaves, cabbage leaves, bell peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes wrapped around or stuffed with lamb and rice sausage. My mother, a native of the American Southwest, married my father, an Armenian who enjoyed the honor of being the first of his direct family line to be born in the United States. So, in our family it was he who carried forward the Armenian tradition of lamb at table. That was not difficult for my mother to accommodate: her father was a rancher who raised sheep from time to time. In other words, lamb was a food that my parents easily shared through their more than half century of marriage. Interestingly, though the sausage stuffing was the same whether it was tucked into grape leaves, cabbage leaves, or vegetables, there was a name distinction: wrapped in leaves, the dish was called sarma, but stuffed into vegetables, it was dolma. Dolmas and sarma made with cabbage leaves were considered family fare, and they were a dinner staple in our household. Stuffed grape leaves, which require more time and earnest effort, were festive fare, so they were saved for family get-togethers or special birthday requests (mine in particular). For how to blanch and separate the leaves for making stuffed cabbage leaves, see page 151.

Hmong farmers, fleeing Laos to escape persecution, began arriving in the United States in the latter half of the 1970s, with the majority arriving in the 1980s. Most of them eventually settled where they could continue their agrarian life: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Ohio, North Carolina, and California, especially in the fertile land around Fresno, California. This occurrence is especially remarkable to me because it is where my Armenian relatives also settled three generations ago to farm in one of most bountiful growing places in the world. And I benefit still from that abundance. Notwithstanding the lengthy trip to the Bay Area, Hmong-grown vegetables from Fresno appear in glorious array at my local Oakland farmers’ market every Saturday, alongside the Armenian stand from the same area with its effusive display of fruits, heirloom tomatoes, eggplants, and Armenian cucumbers. Among the Hmong staples for sale are sturdy Asian brassicas, such as Chinese cabbage, Chinese mustard greens, and choys of several kinds; luffa (ridged gourd) and Chinese bitter melon; okra and small pickling cucumbers for my holiday pickle jars; and long beans for my Asian-to-new-Californian dishes. Together these two vendors supplement each other and pay tribute to the marriage of Asian and Mediterranean culinary ingredients in California’s hot and prolific Central Valley. It’s enough to incite a food frenzy and cook up something healthful and delicious, such as this hearty yet delicate Hmong-style main-dish soup.

By curious circumstance, I found myself in Vienna in 1968, shortly after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia and just over a decade after the Soviet invasion of Hungary. I was there for the International Philosophical Congress, which didn’t hold my interest long. There was much more to see and experience outside the confines of academia. Aside from the eternal beauty of Vienna as a center for music, the fine arts, and fine pastries, the streets were filled with people—Czechs as well as Hungarians—who had taken refuge in the welcoming city following the invasion of their countries. The energizing buzz over the politics of the time was everywhere, expressed in Czech, Russian, Hungarian Magyar (a language unrelated to nearly all other European languages and incomprehensible to ears unfamiliar with it), and in other tongues as well. But, as always, the food served as a binding, cohesive force. The city’s dining establishments, casual bistros and more formal restaurants alike, were filled with east Europeans, Viennese locals, and tourists like me, all looking for something good to eat. In addition to the impossible-to-resist Viennese fare, there were many Hungarian dishes which had become a familiar part of Viennese cooking. That is when and where I discovered the essential tastes and food combinations of east European cuisine, and, more important, that no matter what, food of the homeland is never left behind.

The countries of east Europe are a disparate lot, continually at odds over issues of religion and governance. But, as nearby neighbors, they share a cooking culture over and above those differences. This sausage and the following recipe for Hungarian meatballs in a sour cream sauce are my imaginative combining of the foods that this corner of the world can share without rancor or strife. The sausage, formed into balls and sautéed, can also be served with cucumbers in a light vinaigrette and potato salad dressed with dill and sour cream for a meze plate.

Imam bayildi, as this dish of Turkish origin is called in Bulgaria, Albania, and Greece, and its story have a special place in my cooking repertoire and in my heart. It was introduced to me by Susanna Hoffman, my longtime friend and sometimes cookbook coauthor, who is, among other things, an esteemed social anthropologist whose special field of endeavor is Greece. The story of imam bayildi has many versions, but details aside, it is essentially a tale of love and household thrift. A bride new to the house of her new husband, an imam, came with a dowry of olive oil. But there was only a certain amount. And the imam loved eggplant above all other foods. In practice, because eggplant, as it cooks, is a great gulper of olive oil, and olive oil is the equivalent of kitchen gold, the dish was using up too much of the bride’s dowry. What to do? How to please the husband and keep the eggplant rich and unctuous without blowing the kitchen budget? Susanna solved the dilemma by having the thoughtful bride coax the eggplant into softening with the addition of some water, thereby requiring less of the precious olive oil and with equally excellent results. Was the imam thrilled? Did he faint as the original story line suggests? We don’t know, but we presume the clever, money-minded bride kept her place and the imam was happy. In yet another, latter-day telling of the story, I call the beef and eggplant filling a sausage and the eggplant shells the casing, and imam bayildi winds up in a new sausage cookbook.

Partially cooking the potato and chilling it before grating serves two purposes: the potato gets thoroughly cooked within the sausage mix, which it won’t if it is added raw, and the sausage doesn’t turn out soft and mushy, which it will if the potato is cooked and mashed first. I prefer to get a jump start on this dish by preparing the potato a day ahead and chilling it overnight. But if you’re in a rush, several hours will do the trick, in which case, use the freezer to hasten the chilling. Rather than the standard Swedish accompaniment of mashed potatoes, I serve the sausage with a side of colorful, almost candylike roasted beets topped with sour cream.

In this pan-African menu, disparate parts of the continent are melded in a culinary way. The sausage is inherited from the Dutch colonialists in South Africa; the cashews, which were first brought from Brazil by the Portuguese, import a taste of Nigeria on the west coast and Mozambique on the east coast; and the spiced butter, called niter kibbeh, wafts in gently from Ethiopia. The rice and collard greens are pan-global.

Lemongrass, a key ingredient in Vietnamese and Thai cooking, contributes a clean, citrusy taste and fragrance to dishes, such as in this Southeast Asian sausage, where it lightens the bold seasoning. Only the pale, tender inside of the bottom part of the lemongrass stalk is used. To prepare lemongrass cut off and discard the long, thin, gray-green leafy tops and trim away the root end. Peel away the stiff, outer leaves down to the tender core. Slice the core into very thin rounds or chop finely.

What traveler to faraway places with strange-sounding names hasn’t become enamored of the street food found along the way? As much as art, architecture, magnificent landscapes, and the people, the food attracts. Street food requires no formal dress, nor a large bank account. It is simply there for eating, either at the spot or on the move to the next point of interest. In keeping with the street-food theme, grill these sausages if you can. Otherwise, a brisk sauté on the stove top works well. The dipping sauce, nuoc cham, is the table sauce in Vietnamese dining, much like a cruet of vinegar and one of oil on an Italian table, a bottle of chile oil and one of soy sauce on a Chinese table, or fresh tomato salsa or salsa verde on a Mexican table. It is important to use a good-quality fish sauce, one that is smooth, rather than sharp. I recommend Thai Kitchen brand, generally available in well-stocked supermarkets these days and certainly available in Asian markets.

Somewhere in the land space between Asia and Europe, pork became a rare ingredient in cooking. In most of those lands, it was because pork is proscribed for religious reasons. But then there are noticeable exceptions. In Armenia, Georgia, and Greece, pork appears on menus, though never in the exalted number of dishes that it does in the surrounding cuisines of Europe, Southeast Asia, or China. The disparity remains a mystery to me. There is no religious prohibition in these places, and pigs don’t require vast ranges or grasslands to thrive. Indeed, a small pen in the home yard does nicely. Perhaps it is because of the influence of their neighbors. The Armenians, Georgians, and Greeks are Christians, but they are flanked by Muslims and, if contiguous populations don’t insist on warring with one another, they intermingle, which means, most profoundly, they come together at the table. Thus, if you can’t share a pork dish with your neighbors, you might instead choose lamb or beef for a multicultural, convivial affair. In any case, the Greeks have retained in their repertoire a pork-based sausage that includes a bit of beef and is aromatic with orange zest and coriander and extra zesty with chile flakes. It imports with ease to anywhere such a sausage is wanted.