Mock Duck Muck

Some people seem to want their food to deceive them. Maybe it started with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, but it’s the vegetarian crowd that has really taken off with the idea. It’s easy enough to be a vegetarian in a city like New York – most restaurants have meatless options on the menu – but certain establishments and food manufacturers have ensured that one can give up meat without giving up, for example, barbeque chicken wings, pork buns, and roast beef sandwiches (for vegetarians craving any of these items, check out Red Bamboo). I’ve had some tasty dishes with marinated tofu, baked seitan, and all kinds of other glutinous protein products, but I’ve never seen the need to convince myself that they were former animal parts. Still, curiosity compelled me to add a can of “duck” to my basket of exciting finds at Hong Kong Supermarket in Sunset Park.

The other thing that makes me resist meatless meat is the quirky naming conventions. “Faux chicken” sounds less than appetizing, “krab” gets lost amongst other typos, and the oxymoronic “vegetarian tuna salad” just gives the impression that the chef was confused. For duck, following the template of the infamous “tofurkey” is dangerous. I’ve heard “mock duck” is fairly common, but the label on the can I bought is entirely in Chinese, so I think I can call it whatever I want.

I was actually pretty excited about this duck stuff. As it sat in my cupboard, I began to think that this 89-cent can might provide an ingenious way to eat duck, or something sufficiently duck-like, a couple times a week. Then, I opened the can. It smelled like cat food. It smelled a lot like cat food.

But I persevered. I fished a few hunks of rubbery brown protein out of the liquid, and observed the careful imprinting on some of the pieces, meant to mimic the texture of duck skin. I assembled some things that had a better chance of tasting good: broccoli, soy sauce, and a blend of zatar and five-spice powder, which I threw into a bowl with the “duck” and, uh, put in the microwave for a minute (I wasn’t about to devote a lengthy cooking process to such a risky ingredient). I retrieved the steaming mixture, topped it with chopped fresh basil and some hot sesame oil, and added some leftover jicama that had been marinating in lime juice and chili powder.

Fake duck may also taste like cat food. It may not. I’ve never had cat food. But truthfully, it doesn’t taste that bad. It’s pretty salty, and probably could have used a little less soy sauce. It’s reminiscent of meat, in the way that George Clooney is reminiscent of Cary Grant – and George Clooney has been in some good things over the years. Soy gluten, or whatever this stuff is made of, is a good way to add some satisfying chewiness to a bowl of vegetables, and it probably provides a good dose of protein too. I can’t say the textured outer layer does anything to make it particularly like duck, and the taste wasn’t identifiably duck-like either; but then again, I haven’t had duck in a while. I guess I'll have to splurge on a nice piece of duck breast after all, to make a fair comparison.

New Mexican Hatch Chilies

Usually, I approach the airport security check with bored confidence, my contact solution, water bottles, personal packs of propane, and other forbidden liquid conveniences left at home or packed safely in my checked luggage. But on the trip back from San Antonio last weekend, my heart beat a little faster than usual. We were transporting an insulated bag full of frozen Hatch chilies, which were in a solid state when we left the house but (I worried) could dissolve at any minute into a spicy illegal soup and be confiscated by greedy airport personnel. Thankfully no one stopped us, but they would have faced some harsh confrontation if they had. So, although I had never heard of Hatch chilies a few weeks ago, I now have a freezer full of them. Sometimes life is kind.

Hatch chilies, I have since learned, are a particular appellation of pepper, grown exclusively in the region of Hatch, New Mexico. Every year their harvest is accompanied by a local festival and chili cook-off, followed by large-scale stockpiling – the chilies actually improve (meaning they get spicier) the longer they’re kept frozen, and New Mexican chili enthusiasts buy pounds and pounds to last them throughout the year. The enthusiasm has spread to Texas, and my fortunate connections there hooked me up with several bags of roasted Hatch chilies, some of which were a milder version, and a few raw ones to experiment with.

The spicy roasted chilies need very little help to make them a delicious accompaniment to any number of foods – all I did was puree them with a diced tomato and some lemon juice to dampen their fieriness just enough. The smoky flavor from the specks of black char seeps into the salsa the longer you let it sit, and is balanced by the acidity and heat. It was great on top of tamales and jicama. The milder raw chilies were perfect in a salad with quinoa, carrots, and lima beans; they had the crunch and astringent taste of green bell peppers, with a slightly meatier flesh and a tingly spice that appeared almost as an afterthought. I’ve got enough chilies left for a dozen other experiments, and about ten months to come up with something spectacular to present at the Hatch Chili Festival cook-off, in case I decide to attend.

Jerusalem Artichokes

Even in the pouring rain, holding too many bags for two hands and a broken umbrella that kept collapsing and dumping water down my back, I had to stop in front of a farmer’s market stall displaying some fantastically knobbly produce. The ruddy specimens were almost prismatic in shape, with tiny nubs budding out of larger warhead-like sections. These kinds of shapes are not usually edible, so I was set on eating them.

I asked someone who seemed to be working there what the unusual vegetables were. He replied, “Ginger.” The color was gingery enough, but these things were spikier than any ginger I had ever seen. I was ready to assume they were some exotic and unknown ginger species, perhaps originating from the foothills of Australia and brought to the Finger Lakes region by a migration of settlers in the late 1990s, but another man stepped up and corrected the first guy: “They’re Jerusalem artichokes.”

This made much more sense; I’d had Jerusalem artichokes, also called sunchokes, as a child, and I remember loving their nutty flavor and how well they reacted to being smeared with butter. They appeared on our table as a one-ingredient dinner a few times, but I don’t think I ever thought of them as anything other than “those potato-y things.”

These tubers deserve attention as much more than potato-y things. When boiled until tender, their resilient skin adds a nice contrast (and probably heaps of nutrition) to their delicate inner flesh, which has a unique but essentially vegetal flavor, reminiscent of artichokes minus the hint of bitterness that the thistles sometimes have. The batch I got from the farmer’s market were delicious along with some kale and venison stew (from a 99-cent packet heated in the microwave – don’t you wish you lived near Canned Foods or had a mother who did?). For an ingredient with such interesting appearance and flavor I’m always tempted to keep the preparation minimal, but I hear Jerusalem artichokes also make good soups and gratins.

Zaatar

Sorry Fatoosh, a new restaurant has stolen my heart (and from now on will probably take a significant chunk, though a reasonable one, of my paycheck). When the waiter arrived at our table with the Vegetarian Platter for Two, I knew I would be coming back to Waterfalls Cafe. The enormous oblong plate was overflowing with hummus, babaghanouj, muhammara, the freshest taboule you can find on Atlantic Avenue (and this street provides a lot of comparisons), and studded with dolmas and falafel balls. I respect any restaurant that can provide fresh, well-seasoned food to feed three hungry people for $20, and the fact that Waterfalls is BYOB raises it to Number One Choice for My Next Birthday Party.

My mother, during the usual frenzy that occurs when ordering food for a table to share, exacerbated by her constant state of personal frenzy, had also requested an order of zaatar bread, despite having no idea what it was. Fortunately, I had always wanted to try it – it’s on the menu of any Mediterranean restaurant and I’d heard good things about it on Anthony Bourdain’s TV show, but I always go for the simplicity of plain pita. The zaatar bread at Waterfalls was a doughy flatbread brushed with olive oil and topped with crumbled feta and the special seasoning blend. It had a nice crunch from sesame seeds and the toastier edges of the crust, and the course salt and feta added just the right amount salt and tanginess. But what made it an unquestionably worthwhile upgrade from plain pita was the combination of floral and lemony spices that go into the zaatar mix.

“Zaatar” is the Arabic word for the family of herbs that includes thyme, oregano, and savory, and it's also used to refer to the seasoning made by grinding the dried plants and combining them with toasted sesame seeds, salt and other spices. Precise recipes vary from region to region, and even from kitchen to kitchen – apparently in North Africa, wives have been known to keep their signature methods secret from their own daughters. It all sounds very complicated – I was grateful to discover when I got home that my mother had gotten me a container of zaatar spice from a specialty shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts, sparing me the trouble of discovering the correct ratios and ingredients myself.

I got to work looking up ways to use the stuff, and it seems there is no end to the possibilities. Zaatar can be sprinkled on hummus, rubbed on meats, swirled into labneh, mixed with olive oil to form a paste to spread on bread or bagels. It can also be discovered at the center of baked rolls or coating the exterior of balls of cured Israeli cheese. I want to try it as a seasoning for fried onions or a topping for brie and other soft cheeses, but for now my favorite way to eat it is with good bread (pita or otherwise) and deliciously grassy extra-extra-extra virgin olive oil.