Travel Through Time With Food

I was noshing at Yusho in the Monte Carlo with friends and business associates last week, enjoying a fabulous experience compiled of share-ables. However, this experience was less about the food I was eating and more about the food memories that were being recalled by those in attendance — the smells, flavors and textures. It was the pan jus from a confit of suckling pig shank, studded with salty fragments of meat, fortified broth and onions that took me on a trip back in time.

I'm sitting at the 94th Air Squadron Restaurant in South Florida. I must have been 7 or 8 years old eating with my Grandpa Bill. He was quite a character, always working to perfect the "elbow slipping off the table routine." If executed perfectly, it would have my sister and me in stitches. I'm thinking of my first experience with French onion soup, an intimidating crock of soup, to say the least, for an 8-year-old, with layers of molten broiled cheese oozing over the sides. One could only imagine how hot the liquid would be in the center. But, nonetheless, it is my favorite soup, hands down.

Once you excavate through the layers of cheese and soggy bread, the soup broth permeates the air with sweet, salty and rich onion-like aromatics. I was sitting at Yusho but reliving my soup adventures. If the pork shank had only been covered in Gruyere, the memory would be complete. A curious situation, maybe, but it was a wonderful way to remember times past.

[pullquote:left]My journeys and food adventures remind me how food makes us feel. It has the power to transport us, if you will, through space and time to pivotal moments in our lives. I became a chef to become a part of that, the power of a memory complete with taste, touch and smell. The stories I hear from others and the memories I have behind food are sometimes romantic and personal.

It begins with what was on the stove, how it smelled and alludes to the secret of the recipe. It's a personal story that allows the storyteller and the listener to remember a life event that was possibly not motivated by food but is recalled by food. It's a starry-eyed and interesting phenomenon, having a story to share with my friends and family, and, especially, my children, of times past but never forgotten and shared over a meal.

For most people, food memories are strongly tied to family. The bonding of family over food is a worldwide tradition. Grandma's lasagna recipe is handed down, and family gatherings just aren't the same without it.

My food memories are strong — my grandmother cutting through a Florida grapefruit, and as she slices you can begin to smell the citrus perfume, small amounts of the juice spray from the knife. The one half she holds with her tiny, arthritic hand is barely steady, and just as the cut is complete the other half of the oversized fruit rolls off the cutting board onto the counter, leaving a trail of grapefruit juice tears.

Without a second passing, she is working the grapefruit with a small, curved blade that is separating the fruit's pith from the flesh. As it curves around the half fruit, grandma is ready for her special spoon, prepared to separate each segment into a perfect bite. Into a bowl it goes flesh side up, and a teaspoon of sugar sprinkles the top. Then to my placemat it's delivered.

I've eaten almost to the end of my grapefruit, and this is my favorite part because several grapefruits ago, grandma shared a valuable lesson and the secret to the citrus finale. As you near the last segment, you squeeze the fruit to allow all the juice to pool to the center of your citrus cup, and then as the last bite hits your mouth, you drink the remaining juice that's mixed with sugar. This memory has permanently altered my idea of grapefruit forever.

It's like this for most food memories, a single event that is likely tied to an ingredient. I can smell the citrus and oil from the fruit right now and still imagine the scene and how it played out. I've overheard my children with their friends, and frankly there isn't much happening there in the way of memorable food memories as I see it. I guess the memories are all relevant to the person, but I'd like to not pass down the memory of Dad popping open a can of biscuits.

I'd rather share the labor of love in making those biscuits together so that the time together, kneading and cutting, is as important as the final product. It may be partially about the biscuits, but isn't it more about the slow investment of the craft? With the return on the investment being your children sharing this craftsmanship and time investment with their children and so on?

Sure, I can run the kids down the street to McDonald's and pick up six sausage biscuits, throw them on the table and strike up a conversation, but my idea of creating a food memory looks like homemade biscuits, sharing tricks and techniques, getting my hands dirty to give my kids something more substantial to draw from when they are grown and I'm gone. So when they are out with friends one night, as adults, they can recall the time I taught them how to make biscuits simply from the whiff of baking bread. That is what I call powerful.

Here is a biscuit recipe perfect for sharing, preserving and creating those same types of memories. Through time we travel and always, risk it for the biscuit.

Perfect Biscuits
Yield: 10 biscuits

Ingredients
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 cup buttermilk, chilled
1 large egg, beaten
½ cup vegetable shortening
½ cup cold water
¼ pound unsalted cubed butter

Directions
Preheat oven to 450ºF. Prepare a baking sheet with non-stick spray.

In a large bowl, mix the flour, salt, sugar, and baking powder, using a fork to blend and incorporate.

Add the buttermilk, whisked egg, shortening, and ½ of the chilled water. Use a rubber spatula to start mixing to form a dough. Do not over mix.

Fold in the cubes of butter, now use your hands to fold the dough and the butter together. The butter should remain in small chunks throughout the dough. This will make the biscuits flaky.

Turn dough out onto a floured work surface. Lightly press into a 1 ¼ inch layer, making it level.

With a round cutter place each one on the baking sheet, touching each other. This allows the biscuits to work together and rise.

Place the biscuits on the sheet pan in the refrigerator for 10-15 minutes prior to baking, so the butter can become cold.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, or golden brown, brush with melted butter and sprinkle with salt.