I feel pretty blessed
to be someone who gets sent vegan cookbooks on the regular. I have to say, as
someone who remembers when bookstore shelves in the vegetarian cooking section
were pretty sparse aside from the Moosewood machine, we are living at a time when
an abundance of excellent titles seem to be released every week, each one more
enticing than the previous. From comforting casserole recipes to Indian ones, tacos galore to artisan chocolate, there is a
cookbook for every taste bud, craving and skill level. Chef and cookbook author
Alan Roettinger is someone who has helped to raise
the bar for what vegan food means with his accessible but exquisite recipes
that elevate plant-based cuisine to its rightful status: luscious and
flavorful, complex but not complicated, Alan shows us that vegan food is
anything but bland, especially when we focus on the stars of the show, which
are the plants themselves. With his new cookbook, The Almond Milk Cookbook: Over 100 Delicious Recipes, Alan
explores the seemingly simple concept of preparing foods with almond milk and
comes up with some fascinating results. I appreciate Alan’s engagement with the world (I'm lucky enough to be a Facebook friend so I know we share some political views) as well as his unabashed
ability to enjoy the simple but rich pleasures of life
1. How did you start down this path of
creating delicious food? Was a love for food nurtured into you? Did you have
any special relatives or mentors who helped to instill this passion?
I grew up in Mexico, and the
contrast between what my unadventurous American parents ate and what the
Mexicans ate in itself was enough to start me down this path. I should qualify
that; my father was very adventurous and fun-loving, but when it came to that
exotic food, he wouldn’t even try it. He was, to his dying day, a pretty bland
eater. When I was around ten or twelve, my older sister took me to a Danish
delicatessen in Mexico City, called Konditori, and introduced me to something
called cappuccino. It was not generally known in America yet, but a few
continental cafés in Mexico served it. Just the sound of a cappuccino being
made excited me. Then, the pastries! I had never had such fine confections. I
was instantly hooked, on all of it—the elegance of the food, the miraculous
coffee drink, that first hint of European eating style, and (for life) on
caffeine. My sister was really cool.
Later, the day after I graduated from high school, a wonderful thing happened.
On their way to divorce court, my parents drove me to the airport, where I
boarded a plane and flew to Europe. The very first meal I had there, in a
little restaurant in Luxembourg, pretty much sealed it for me. I was destined to
not only eat marvelous food, but to participate in the creation of it.
I’d say that a love for food was
definitely nurtured in me, not so much by a mentor as by events and random
people. Mexico City was a major melting pot of cultures back then, and because
my father was in the foreign service (C.I.A.), my parents knew people from all
over the world. I remember going to the home of some Russians where I tasted a
real chocolate charlotte for the first time. The deep, dark, rich flavor and amazing
cloudlike texture stayed with me for twenty years, until I figured out how to
make it myself. The passion was in me from birth, and all I really needed was
exposure to truly fine food to catapult me on my way.
2. What was your diet like when you were growing up? Did you have any
favorite meals or meal traditions? Do you carry them over today?
My parents ate pretty standard
American food—fried chicken, breaded with that corn flake stuff, mashed
potatoes, spaghetti with meat sauce (I can’t bring myself to call it
“Bolognese”), pork chops, meatloaf, boiled-to-death vegetables with butter and
salt. My mother had taught the maids how to make it, and they did a great job
of reproducing the gringo food, day in, day out.
We had our big meal at lunchtime,
when I got home from school. Then we’d all get up from the table, and I would
go into the kitchen and watch the maids make their food, which was a universe
away from what the gringos ate. Serious flavor. Spicy, delicious, exciting
food. And the process was thrilling to watch—pounding fresh ingredients to a
pulp in a volcanic stone mortar, flames leaping around pans as they slid it in,
incredible smells! It was pure alchemy.
I think Thanksgiving stands out
among my favorite family meals as a kid, probably because it was only once a
year. Looking back, now that I know how to cook, it was pathetic food, starting
with the pale, greasy pan gravy. Over the years, I’ve taken the essence of what
we ate, found the roots—both the elegant and the rustic—and created a style of
presenting those foods that is much truer to the foods themselves than anything
I had as a child. Brussels sprouts are a quick example. As a child, I hated
them, and could only choke down the minimum requirement insisted on by my
mother. They were mushy to the point of being slimy and the flavor strongly
evoked the smell of dirty socks. As I later realized, what made them so odious
was simply that they had been systematically overcooked. Done properly with a little
love and imagination, they’re quite good. So yes, I have carried most of that
food over to the present, but not in their original, sadly unimaginative forms.
What kind of chef would I be if I didn’t leave a dish better than I found it?
3. What is the best vegan meal you've ever had? Give us all the details!
I haven’t had it yet! Sorry—bad
dodge (even if I do believe it’s absolutely true). The problem with this is,
it’s like making Sophie’s choice, but with dozens to choose from. Maybe I’ll
just pick one I had at a restaurant and one I made, and see what happens.
A few years ago, my publisher
took me and a couple of other authors to dinner at an Ethiopian Restaurant in
Toronto called Rendezvous. We had been to several Ethiopian restaurants in
various cities before, as they reliably offer very good vegan food. This one
was unforgettable. The waiter brought out the largest platter I’d ever seen,
with what must have been fifteen or more different dishes, neatly piled around
the bed of injera. It was spectacularly exquisite food, and as we were leaving,
I went to pay my respects to the cooks. To my utter amazement, there was just
one woman at the stove, and no one else but a young girl in the back washing
dishes. I started to tell the cook how much I loved her food, but it was clear
she didn’t understand English. So I put both hands to my mouth and blew her a
big kiss. She answered with a radiant smile. Cooks have a way of communicating.
Now one of my own favorites. When
I entertain guests, I like to create a degustation, a series of small tastes
with different flavors, textures and temperatures. This gives me a chance to be
inventive (which I like), surprise and delight my guests (which we all like),
and serially bring the conversation to a sudden standstill, as overwhelmed
palates find themselves far too busy absorbing layers of flavor to participate
in making words (a phenomenon every cook knows and loves).
I started with a simple canapé:
crostini toasted with garlic olive oil, covered with an oval strip of roasted
red pepper, topped with a small quenelle of pistachio cream and garnished with
pomegranate seeds and chopped parsley.
As a formal starter, I served an
asparagus-fava bean soup, sweetened slightly by sweating about two cups of
finely diced shallots for half an hour before adding the cut asparagus and
vegetable broth, and cooking just five minutes, to preserve flavor and color.
Then I puréed the mixture with a cup of chopped Italian parsley and two cups of
peeled fava beans. I served it in small bowls, garnished with a large asparagus
tip, cut in half lengthwise, one piece cut side up and the other across it, cut
side down, forming an X, with a fresh fava bean on each side, surrounded by a
flourish of Spanish Hojiblanca EVOO.
For the second course, I
experimented with some cute little orange pumpkin shaped pasta I found called
“zucchette” (pumpkinettes). I hadn’t used them before, but the shopkeeper
assured me they would keep their shape when cooked, so I took the plunge. I
made a “pumpkin” sauce with a hubbard squash harvested from my wife’s garden, a
rich-tasting delight with a deep rusty orange color. Very simple, it was just
sautéed onion and garlic, the squash, vegetable broth, a few sprigs of fresh
sage and bay leaves. When I puréed it, I added some soaked cashews to give it a
little creaminess. I presented the dish garnished with quarter-inch lengths of
chive (thankfully, my wife keeps us well-supplied with all the fresh herbs we
need, even in the winter). I kept this one especially small—just a few
spoonfuls—because I didn’t want the pasta to satiate anyone (I was the only one
at the table with Italian blood).
Next, I went back to asparagus,
which no one seemed to mind. I made a simple version of “grilled asparagus with
romesco sauce,” by blanching four-inch spears in vegetable broth with just
enough EVOO to leave them silky, and barely tender. I arranged them side by
side on small square salad plates, piped the romesco across them generously in
a tight zig zag pattern, and garnished them with shichimi togarashi (a Japanese
“seven flavor chile” mixture of sesame seeds, orange peel, poppy seeds, hot
paprika, red chile, Szechuan pepper, ground ginger and nori flakes). The gently
assertive heat from the sauce and spice mixture helped perk appetites after the
pasta course.
There were nonvegans present, so
to assuage the protein deficiency paranoia (which I knew would be there, even
if no one mentioned it), I served beluga lentils with sautéed escarole. This is
a very simple dish, but thoroughly gratifying. The combination of lentils and
greens is a popular one throughout the Middle East and many Mediterranean
cuisines, and for good reason (it’s freaking delicious). I live at around 7400
feet, so I always start lentils and beans separately, in a pressure cooker.
While they were cooking, I stewed finely diced onion, celery and carrot in a
small amount of EVOO for about 40 minutes. Then I added the lentils, a little
smoked paprika, Aleppo pepper, salt and a bay leaf, and cooked it all until the
lentils were tender and the juices had formed a rich sauce. Separately, I
simmered 12 cloves of garlic, sliced about a quarter-inch thick, in a few
tablespoons of EVOO until they turned a light tan color, then poured them, oil
and all, into a small bowl to cool (they continue cooking for a few minutes as
they cool). I reheated a couple of tablespoons of the garlic-infused oil in a
large pot and added a large head of escarole, washed and very coarsely chopped.
Escarole cooks fairly quickly, so I pulled it off the heat when it was still
slightly chewy and added it to the lentils. After that, I let it rest until
serving time, so all I needed to do was reheat it. I served the lentils and
escarole in low bowls, garnished with the lightly caramelized sliced garlic and
oil, and made sure everyone knew that the origin of both the black lentils and
Aleppo pepper was northern Syria, and this was my tribute to our suffering
brethren over there.
Second to last, as a palate
cleanser, I served a simple salad of frisée lettuce and watercress, dressed in
a vinaigrette made with fresh lime juice, brown rice vinegar, freshly ground
black, white, pink and green peppercorns, and vanilla bean-infused walnut oil.
I garnished this with cacao nibs and a few roasted cashews, as a subtle liaison
between dinner and dessert.
For the final course, I served
three small (but decent size) quenelles of Abate Fetel pear sorbet, radiating
out from the center of the plate, with a cardamom-spiked dark chocolate sauce,
pooled between them, and tall oven-dried pear chips planted in each quenelle.
The sorbet is very simple. I just poached five Abate Fetel pears, cut into
chunks with the skin on, in a light organic cane sugar syrup with a split
vanilla bean, until very tender. Then I removed the vanilla bean and puréed the
pears with some of the syrup and stirred in a spoonful of fresh Meyer lemon
juice. I chilled it for a few hours and then froze it in an ice cream maker. I
reheated some of the remaining poaching syrup and whisked in an ounce and a
half of chopped dark chocolate and a quarter-cup of fine Dutch process cocoa.
When it was smooth, I poured it into a bowl, stirred in a little freshly
crushed cardamom seed, and set it in the refrigerator until serving time. To
make the pear chips, I cut three pears in half lengthwise and then used a
mandoline to cut thin cross-sections, about 2 mm thick. I brushed them with the
remaining vanilla-pear syrup and set them on baking pans, lined with parchment,
lightly greased with coconut oil. I baked them at 300 degrees for about 20
minutes, until they were lightly browned. As they cooled, they became firm and
crisp, with slightly frilly edges. There were plenty left over after assembling
the dessert, so the next day I brushed these on both sides with melted and tempered
chocolate for a crunchy (heavenly) treat. [Ed. note: That was all, Alan? Slacker!]
4. If you could prepare one meal or dessert for anyone living or dead, who
would it be for and what would you create?
What a great question! The answer
may be disappointing. There is one person I always look forward to cooking for,
with both excitement and trepidation. As I mentioned in the acknowledgements
page in Extraordinary Vegan, “He is a man who truly understands what
perfection is and why it’s so important to reach for it. Trying to hit that
spot, to gratify his discerning palate, is what launched my entire career. For
this, and for the kindness and respect he has always shown me, I owe a debt I
can never repay.” There is a love and great respect, which is ample reason to
want to prepare a meal for him, but then there also is that very high standard,
which challenges me to the core, pulling out the very best I have in me. There has
been nothing in my life to match that feeling.
I’m sorry to tell you, however,
that I have no idea what I would make, because one thing that never works with
him is to come with preconceived ideas. It has to come from a pure inspiration
(the purer and more inspired the better). I can say, though, that I will do my
best to go beyond myself. Who is this person? Again, sorry, but the operative
word in “private chef” is not “chef,” but “private.” C’est la vie.
5. What do you think are common mistakes in vegan cooking and how do you
avoid them?
I think there are two possible
mistakes in some vegan cooking. The first is when people try to cook
without understanding the fundamentals. In this, vegans are no different from
nonvegans. It’s important to learn how to do something if you want it to come
out right. You can always bend or even break the rules, but if you want to be
successful, first you have to know what they are. It may seem arbitrary or
rigid, but people have been cooking for as long as human beings have existed
(indeed, it’s what originally made us different from all other animals), and
they’ve passed down some serious learning.
The other is that many vegans try
to bring the very food they’ve come to reject into their new paradigm. When I
decided to stop eating animal products, I turned my back on them, said goodbye,
and never tried to imitate them. I know this is unorthodox in the vegan world,
but that’s the way I am. I knew there was never going to be a plant-based foie
gras, gorgonzola, tallegio, venison Wellington, osso buco, salmon with sorrel
cream sauce, or any of the hundreds of my other favorite delights from the
animal exploitation world. And I knew that none of the imitations would ever
fool my palate, so why insult my standards with them? Better to simply close
the chapter, and the door, and move on.
My cuisine has always been
vegetable-driven, because I understood from an early age that all the nuance
and brilliance of flavor comes from the plant kingdom. People get all moony
over “grass-fed” meat for a reason (and it’s not compassion for the animal). So
my advice to vegan cooks is to make a clean break. Forget and forsake the meat
and dairy paradigm once and for all. Think like an herbivore—someone who has
never even had a thought about eating anything but plants. Humans are
omnivorous, but that only means we can eat all kinds of food; it doesn’t
mean we must or that we should. The plant kingdom has infinitely more variety,
subtlety and deliciousness to offer than the animal kingdom—not to mention
fiber, antioxidants and phytonutrients. Why remain addicted to the animal
kingdom, which represents more a culture of death and decay than anything
genuinely delightful? Get me started.
6. What ingredients are you especially excited about at the
moment?
Well, it’s fall heading into
winter, so top of the list would be pomegranates, fuyu persimmons, satsuma
tangerines, Buddha hand citron, pears, apples, chestnuts, and (if I’m lucky) the
sexiest fruit on the planet, figs! Also, the last of the artichokes, fennel
(always better in winter), Jerusalem artichokes and kohlrabi. Then there are
the year-round spices, of which my current favorites are Spanish smoked hot paprika,
Aleppo pepper, cardamom and saffron. Oh—and chocolate (duh!), always. That
said, I’m always open to finding totally new ingredients—the kind I’ve never
even heard of before, which even after over 30 years of cooking almost every
day, is a relatively frequent experience. Diversity is one of nature’s most
divine attributes.
7. What are your top three cuisines from around the world?
Ooh, that’s hard to narrow down
(and I do dislike narrow). I keep discovering new ones. But number one is easy;
Mexican will always be like coming home for me. What a lot of people outside
Mexico don’t know is that even though it has a lot of animal products
associated with it, the real Mesoamerican diet is primarily plant-based. One of
my favorite comfort foods is calabacita con jitomate (zucchini stewed
with tomato and cinnamon) Okay, so the cinnamon is an import from Asia, post-conquest,
but then so is cilantro. Again, all the variety and subtlety of flavor comes
from the plant foods. Second, in dearness to my heart, would be Indian. It is one
of the most varied, complex and sophisticated cuisines I know, with very
ancient roots and techniques, joining health and sublime pleasure together
seamlessly. Sadly, it’s literally impossible to get the taste exactly right
without using ghee, but I’ve gotten close enough for vegan with coconut oil. As
far as number three, I’m truly stumped. I love French, Italian, Moroccan,
Japanese and all Middle Eastern cuisines almost equally. But then, I love food,
period.
8. Who or what has been most influential to you on your vegan path?
Individuals, groups, books, films, etc. included.
In order of appearance: (1) The
people at Book Publishing Company, who impressed me very much when we
worked together on my first book, Omega 3 Cuisine (vegetarian, not
vegan). (2) My second book, Speed Vegan, which was a project I
was given, from which I never quite escaped (it’s what inspired me to go
vegan). (3) Jonathan Safran Foer’s beautifully written book, Eating Animals, which I read while I was working on Speed Vegan. (4) Summerfest. My first exposure to a no-holds-barred vegan extravaganza. (5) The
heartfelt enthusiasm and sweetness I encountered in most vegans I met, many of
whom were eager to help me promote my books and succeed. They reminded me of the
late sixties and seventies, when revolution was in the air and there was a
palpable sense that we were on the cusp of a new age of enlightenment (we were,
and we are). (6) Being in an all-vegan audience at the premiere of “Vegucated," at a theater in Toronto. Like a giant happy family. Great fun, massive
energy boost. (7) People, too many to list, but some who made an indelible
impression (for different reasons): Gene Baur, Victoria Moran, Brenda Davis, Jo Stepaniak, Caryn Hartglass, Donna Benjamin, Robert Cheeke, Lisa Shapiro
(blessings and peace be upon her sweet, ever-giving soul), and, well, you,
Marla! There are others, and if any of them are reading this, no slight
intended or implied. You know who you are!
9. What issue is nearest and dearest to your heart that you would like people
to know more about?
Peace. The possibility (and the
necessity) of experiencing peace. Of all the things I’m sure about, I’m
absolutely certain that the future of our species—indeed the planet and every
species on it—depends on our ability to transform from self-centered, ignorant
beings to self-actualized conscious beings. Peace is possible.
We all have the inherent
capability to turn our focus within and find the source of peace at the core of
our being. Our longing for it is expressed in everything we do, however
contrary or unrelated to peace our activities may be. Another, perhaps more
appealing word for it is bliss—the state of completion where peace, love,
happiness, consciousness, contentment, joy, fulfillment are all happening at
the same time. Every creature seeks this, consciously or unconsciously, and the
only way for all of us to live together in harmony is for each of us to attain
it. It is entirely doable. I’ve spent the last 43 years practicing the art of peace,
and I can’t recommend it highly enough. I will openly admit that I’m still not
very good at it, but even on my worst days, it remains possible for me. If I
can do it, anyone can (seriously).
I hope everyone who reads this
will agree, or at the very least become curious about the possibility of
finding the peace within themselves. Life is short. I used to say this back
when I was in my early twenties (what did I know about it, right?), but when I
hit 60, it became all too real for me. I’m turning 63 in a week, and that means
that, best case scenario (I live to be 100), I’ve only got 13,505 days left.
And the older I get, the faster days fly by. I didn’t come here to write books.
I came here to get something, and I got it. Now I have to make sure I still
have it when I leave, so the whole thing will not have been a waste of time.
Self-knowledge is the prize, guys. Seek it, find it, feel it, keep it close. If
you get frustrated in your search, don’t give up; ask for help, and know that
help will come. Nothing is dearer to my heart.
10. Last, please finish this sentence. "To me, veganism is…"
To me, veganism is one very
natural step in human evolution, as crucial in our development as picking our
knuckles up and straightening our spine. But I have to say, I’m uncomfortable
with anything that ends with “ism.” To me, it’s more about becoming conscious
and taking responsibility for it. No ism to follow, no rules to keep me
on the straight and narrow. It’s just a matter of staying with the constantly
opening and elevating of my awareness and following the desire of my own heart.
Being vegan is not a goal or even an activity for me. It’s the natural outcome
of being aware. I can feel it in my body, because my health and vitality are
improved (and as I age, this becomes increasingly important, believe me). I can
see it in the eyes of all creatures; that “golden rule” is not just for humans.
I can see it in the environment; filth and degradation are not nature’s way,
and if we don’t get with the program, nature will turn on us like the plague our
species is fast becoming.
The more I practice the inner experience I mentioned in my answer
to question #9, the more I’m compelled to seek kindness and compassion, to try
to convert my baser instincts of competition and accumulation to my higher ones
of cooperation and giving. It’s not an “ism” to me. It’s a necessity. I’m not
there yet, but I’m well on my way.
Alan was generous enough to share some of the recipes he mentioned for his epic answer to #3. Here you go! (Thanks, Alan!)
Romesco Sauce
(from Extraordinary Vegan)
Makes 5 cups
A staple of the cuisine of Catalonia, in Northeastern Spain, romesco sauce is a
profoundly gratifying condiment. It is traditionally served with grilled foods,
where indeed it excels, and it goes very well with boiled or baked potatoes. It
also makes a compelling dip, an assertive sandwich spread, and an irresistible
thing to lick off one’s fingers. The quantity may seem excessive, and you
should feel free to cut it in half. However, I’ve learned that with exquisite
dishes that require a little work, you might as well make a lot while you’re at
it. You won’t be sorry, believe me.
6 red peppers
2 cups hazelnuts,
roasted and skins removed
1/2 cup red wine
vinegar
1/2 cup extra-virgin
olive oil
1/2 cup flax oil
24 cloves roasted
garlic
3 tablespoons Spanish
smoked hot paprika
3 tablespoons tomato
paste
1 teaspoon hot red
chile powder
1 teaspoon salt (plus
more as needed)
Preheat the broiler on
high. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil.
Quarter the peppers lengthwise and remove the stems and membranes. Don’t worry
about any seeds that may adhere—they will actually add flavor. Trim the pointed
tips so they will lie flat, cut side down. Put the peppers on the prepared
baking sheet and broil until the skins are evenly blackened, about 10 to 15
minutes. Immediately put the peppers in a small bowl and cover tightly with a
pot lid, a plate, or aluminum foil. Repeat with the remaining peppers. Let
steam in the bowl until barely warm, about 15 minutes. Uncover and pour cold
water into the bowl to loosen the skins. Remove and discard the skins.
Put the peppers in a blender. Add the hazelnuts, vinegar, olive oil, flax oil,
garlic, paprika, tomato paste, chile powder, and salt. Process until smooth,
stopping from time to time, to scrape down the sides.
Stored in jars in the refrigerator, the romesco sauce will keep for two weeks.
It will be long gone by then, of course.
Pistachio Cream
(from The Almond Milk Cookbook)
Makes about 1½ cups
Mildly sweet, this is like the spirit of pistachios, in cloud form. It can
swing from sweet to savory, too, so keep that in mind. I made a Middle Eastern
sort of hors d’oeuvre with roasted red pepper, pistachio cream and pomegranate
seeds once that was scary-good.
1 cup raw shelled
pistachios
½ cup almond milk
2 tablespoons powdered
sugar
1/8 teaspoon pistachio
extract (optional)
Put the pistachios in
a ceramic bowl and cover with boiling water. Let sit 2 hours, and then drain.
Slip off the skins and discard.
Put the pistachios, almond milk, powdered sugar and optional pistachio extract
in a blender and process until smooth. Use at once, or scrape into a small
clean jar, cover tightly and refrigerate for up to 1 week.
Abate
Fetel Pear Sorbet with Chocolate Sauce and Pear Chips
Makes
6 servings
8
Abate Fetel pears (yes, you can make
it with Bartlett or d’Anjou)
3 cups water
1 cup organic evaporated cane juice sugar
1 vanilla bean, preferably Tahitian
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice
pinch of unrefined sea salt
1/2 teaspoon coconut oil
1 1/2 ounces dark chocolate, chopped
1/4 cup Dutch process cocoa
2 or 3 green cardamom pods
Set
aside 3 of the best-looking pears with the thickest necks. Quarter the
remaining 5 lengthwise and cut out the cores, including the tough strip leading
up to the stem end. Cut them into 1 to 1 1/2-inch chunks and put them in a
medium saucepan. Add the water and cane sugar. Split the vanilla bean in half
lengthwise and scrape the seeds into the saucepan. Add the two halves of the
bean and bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat. Adjust the heat to
maintain a rambunctious simmer, and cook until the pears are very tender, about
20 minutes.
Remove
the vanilla bean. Drain the pears in a sieve set over a bowl to collect the
syrup. Put the pears in a blender and add 1 1/4 cups of the syrup. Process
until smooth. Pour the puree into a medium bowl and stir in the lemon juice and
salt. Cover and refrigerate until cold, about 3 hours.
While
the puree is cooling, prepare the pear chips. Preheat the oven to 300 degrees
F. Very lightly grease a sheet of parchment paper with the coconut oil
and set it on a baking sheet.
Cut
the remaining 3 pears in half lengthwise. Using a mandoline, slice the cut
sides of the pears into thin cross-sections, no more than 2 mm (3/32 inch)
thick. You will need at least 18 good-looking slices for 6 servings, but it's
wise to make a few extras, if you can. Feel free to eat the parts that don't
make handsome slices. Lay the slices out on the prepared parchment and brush
them very lightly with a little of the remaining syrup. Bake until they have
turned a rich golden color and are curling slightly at the edges, about 10
to 12 minutes. Decrease the heat to the lowest setting and bake until very dry,
another 20 to 30 minutes. Transfer the chips to a dry baking sheet and allow
them to cool completely. If they are not crisp at this point, you may return
them to the oven at the lowest setting and dry them further. Let them cool
again to see if they have dried sufficiently (they will be slightly soft when
warm).
To
make the chocolate sauce, put 3/4 cup of the remaining syrup in a small
saucepan and add the chocolate and cocoa. Set the saucepan over medium-low heat
and stir gently with a whisk until the chocolate has melted and the mixture is
smooth. Remove from the heat. Crack open the cardamom pods and remove the
seeds. Crush the seeds in a mortar, leaving some coarse pieces, and stir into
the sauce. If you don't have a mortar, you can crush the seeds on a cutting
board with the back of a wooden spoon. Let the sauce cool completely. Do not
refrigerate, or it will become too thick.
When
the pear puree is cold, pour into an ice cream machine and freeze according to
the manufacturer's directions. Transfer to a container and set in the freezer
to firm up for about 30 minutes. You may prepare the sorbet in advance up to
this point, but bear in mind that you will need to remove it from the freezer
about 15 minutes before serving, in order to shape it into quenelles (oval
shapes).
At
least 15 minutes before serving, put the dessert plates in the freezer. Using
two large spoons, scoop out about 1/3 cup of the sorbet and form oval shapes by
pushing it back and forth between them. If you haven't done this before, there
will be a bit of a learning curve, but you'll manage. Working as quickly as you
can, set 3 quenelles on each plate, with tips touching in the center and
radiating out. Pour a little of the sauce between the quenelles and let it
spread. Stick a pear chip into each quenelle, with the stem end pointing
straight up. Serve at once! Invite your guests to use their hands to pick up
the pear chips and use them along with their spoons to eat the dessert.
The Just Mayo Story
The VeganEgg
The Save Movement and Anita Krajnc
By CHLOE
The Barnard Medical Center
The Return of VegNews
Magazine
