Week of December 24, 2007

1. Pfeffernüsse from the Bakehouse
I don't really have any hugely fascinating info to share on the subject — I'm not a Pfeffernüsse expert nor did I grow up with them so, in the moment. But they're new this year from the Bakehouse, and more importantly, I think really good and definitely worth checking out. You can buy 'em in little bags on their own or in the very nicely titled Fancy Schmancy Cookie tin that the Bakehouse is packing (packed with three other really good little cookies — raspberry Linzer cookies, chocolate-dipped mint spritz, and lemon shortbread).

Anyways, people who know my eating habits well like to tease that I'd probably put pepper on ice cream if I could. I used to be sort of embarrassed about it. But in doing some reading on the history of pepper I was pleasantly surprised to discover that in ancient times pepper really was used as often in sweets as it was savories. Romans had recipes for fresh fruit to be soaked in wine, than boiled, along with plenty of pepper, cinnamon, and vinegar. They also made what was called "cidonitum": quinces peeled, cut, and then boiled in honey, or a blend of vinegar and honey, then spiced with black pepper, and sometimes with ginger. Medieval Europeans used to pass around spice platters at the conclusion of big meals, dipping a pinch of this and bit of that in the way moderns offer up bottles of sherry or port. Indians have long used it to spice hot chai. You can still see the vestiges of this tradition in baked goods like the Sienese panpepato, (an ancient, pepper-spiked version of panforte).

Interestingly spices like nutmeg, mace and/or cloves have kept a much more prominent presence in modern day sweets, but for some reason black pepper has generally been banished from the pastry kitchen. Fortunately, not from ours. Here we do use the Balinese long pepper in the much-loved Gingerbread Cake. And Pfeffernüsse are right there in the tradition of using — and in this case, being named for — pepper. As you might have already figured out even if you don't speak German, "Pfeffernüsse" means "pepper nuts."

There are I'm sure a zillion versions of them, one per grandmother I'd guess. (Came across one interesting Dutch variant made with white pepper.) At the Bakehouse we're supporting the black pepper with a bit of nutmeg, cloves, anise, Indonesian cinnamon, and some Muscovado sugar. A touch of sea salt brings the flavors out beautifully I think. If you're serving them on a platter (as opposed to eating them out of the bag or the box) I actually recommend a fresh bonus grinding of black pepper over the top — looks good, adds a nice little aroma and added bit of pepper to the flavor. Great cookie, great with coffee, tea or just about anything else!

2. Seignore de Baux Olive Oil from the South of France
Another special oil on our shelves that's here in the US for the first time and, as far as I know, only available here. It's from the same folks in Provence that make the Castelas olive oil — Jean Benoit and Catherine Hugue. In the pre-holiday moment, this oil, like the new Zing label Frantoio oil from Elvio Olave in Chile or the initial Zing label Peranzana oil from Marina Colonna (who just won a nice award in Europe for her oils), is a bottling of a single varietal of olive, in this case one called the Grossane. It's one of the four varieties that Jean Benoit and Catherine Hugues are growing on their farm in the South of France.

The story of us having this oil goes back about two and half years. I was over in Provence visiting the Castelas mill. As we walked around and talked about the oil, Jean Benoit described each of the four olives and how they blend them to produce the Castelas. He spent the most time talking about the Grossane, which he called "the magic olive." As we talked, I of course got more and more intrigued — how could you not be interested in a "magic olives?' (If nothing else "The Magic Olive" would be a great kids book title.) Legend has it that the Grossane olive was brought back to Provence by the nobles of Les Baux who had been to the Holy Land during the Crusades. While the olive itself is quite large (hence its name), its oil yield is by far the lowest of the four varieties the Hugues have — it takes over 20 pounds of Grossane olives to make a liter of oil. Of course, the big thing is how it tastes which is very good, and very different than the also very good blend in which its suffused and then sold under the Castelas label. Unlike the Castelas, which is greener and bolder and grassier, the flavor of this one is soft, yet lively, with aromas that Jean referred to it rather poetically as "grapefruit and green tomato."

The grapefruit thing sounds a bit crazy but sure enough it's really in there. And I don't think it's just the power of poetic suggestion. It's in the aroma and it's in the flavor. And, most importantly, it's good. Whereas the Castelas oil from the Hugues is pretty front loaded and very full flavored, the Seignore de Baux is, softer, more sensual, gentler, smooth, suave, mouth filling but buttery, delicate, and, again, delicious citrusy thing going on. It's got just a little touch of pepper at the end. It's great on plain potatoes, delicate greens, and really nice on moderate-to-delicately flavored fishes. It'd be perfect to drizzle over sautéed scallops actually. However you use it, I'd keep it simple so you can taste the oil effectively. Also, thinking beyond the usual uses for olive oil, the sweetness of the oil makes it particularly interesting to use in the context of desserts. Because of the grapefruit thing, it'd be really great drizzled with honey over sections of fresh citrus fruit.

Anyways, after tasting the Grossane oil on its own Jean told me that although it wasn't coming to the States they did have a small bit of the Grossane bottled on its own under the Seignore de Baux label. It was so interestingly different from the Castelas (which again I also really, really like) that it only made sense to get it going. So we did!

If you've not been in person, this part of Provence is very rocky with big plateaus overlooking valleys; there are large and small stones at every point along the way. The famous castle at Les Baux — from which this oil gets its name — sits on a strategic rock outcropping that oversees all the valleys. Legend has it that the crazy prince of Les Baux used to take great delight in throwing peasants off the cliffs for fun. One of his lesser known activities on the subject the prince and his crack team of "homeland security" experts seem to have determined somehow that the boiling point of olive oil made from Grossane olives was lower than that of other olive varietals. That meant it was easier and quicker to use to fend off attackers who might try to scale the castle walls (and also left a smaller carbon footprint — eco-friendly warfare, right?) So with that efficiency in mind, the prince ordered peasants to grow more Grossane olives. The idea of using single varietal olive oil to throw on attacking armies is a bit hilarious today. I guess if you're gonna go, go in style.

(On a darker environmental note, check out Mort Rosenblum's op ed on climate change and olives in the NY Times)

To leave with a bit more romantic image, the painter Renoir wrote about olives in 19th century Provence: "Look at the light on the olives. It sparkles like diamonds. It is pink, it is blue, and the sky that plays across them is enough to drive you mad." A special, really good, newly arrived gift for any oil lover.

3. Lincolnshire Poacher Cheese
Fantastic Farmhouse Cheese from England's
East Coast
Jess Piskor was saying the other day how good these cheeses was, but how not enough people really know about it. I think he's right on both counts so I figured I'd write a quick bit about it here. If you haven't had it before, by recipe, the Lincolnshire Poacher is very much akin to English cheddar. Basically that's where the recipe derives from and, like the Montgomery's and Keen's cheddars, it's aged in cloth. But because it's made on the other side of England, the soil is different than it is in Somerset, and each cheesemaker gets their own spin on the making and the maturing, the flavor of the cheese is different as well.

The Poacher is made by the Jones brothers — Simon and Tim — on the family's farm in Lincolnshire, on the east coast of England. Lincolnshire is pretty remote — very foggy, very much in the middle of nowhere, with only a small stream of summer tourists going through each summer. It's never been known as cheese-making country, so the fact the Jones' have worked at this so hard, and with such positive results, is of note historically, as well as culinarily.

The Jones' farm their land organically, paying close attention to the varieties of grasses they grow, which in turn contributes to the quality of the milk the cows give. They don't use the nitrogen-fertilizers that nearly all commercial farms now do because they believe the nitrogen makes the milk bitter. "If you eat our grass," Simon said, "it's not." The milk is brought in for cheesemaking straight from the barn, which is all of a few hundred yards from the cheese room. The cheesemaking is all done by hand, using traditional cheddaring techniques, with a few little Jones Brothers twists to take the quality of the cheese up a notch. The cheese is made with raw milk using traditional animal rennet.

Randolph, who as usual seems to have made a very solid choice, picked these particular wheels for us. They were made on May 29, 2005 so they're nearly two and half years old right now. Really like it — cheddary, earthy, stony, buttery (but in a deep cultured butter sort of way, a hint of butterscotch but not that much, not like the aged goudas or anything that extreme). It's a darned good piece of cheese.

PS: Be sure (like all your cheese) to serve it room temperature so you can get the full flavor!

PPS: Lincolnshire Poacher is one an array of Neal's Yard cheeses from Britain that are really good right now — the raw milk Stilton (I have literally five people stop me yesterday to tell me how good they thought it was), the Leicester and the new wheels of Berkswell — all four are all high on my list this week.

4. Opus 1 Coffee from Daterra in Brazil, roasted by Zingerman's
Coffee Co.
It's only a few weeks ago I was working on an article for Specialty Food magazine about what Paul has long referred to as "The Natural Laws of Business." Although we've long lived by them and refer to them in our teaching regularly, writing the piece made me put them down on paper and has put them, in an organized and teachable, repeatable way, in to the forefront of my mind. One of the ones on the list (#10 to be exact — there's a dozen on there) is that, "It generally takes a lot longer to make something great happen than people think." This may not seem shocking to some of you around here because we're pretty used to that reality in the ZCoB (Zingerman's Community of Businesses), but it's just one of those things that most people on the outside of organizations rarely seem to realize. This coffee is an example of that — it's been a really, really long time in the making.

Being brief here, Daterra (which mean "of the Earth" in Portuguese) dates back to the 1980's, when the Pascoal family decided that they wanted to develop a business that would be more ecologically and socially sustainable than the tire trade in which they'd done very well over the decades. As I'm sure you probably already know, we get all our espresso (as well as the very good Sweet Yellow coffee) from Daterra. But today's topic is the exceedingly limited, exceptionally lovely, if also way big expensive special debut of what Daterra is calling Opus 1. The supply of this stuff is so limited that I'm wary of even bringing it up here — I'm grateful we got any at all! There are only two other roasters in North America that have any to work with. For all I know by the time you read this we'll already have sold it the little we got. (I guess though it's not too soon to reserve yours for next year.)

Anyways, the story behind the coffee dates back decades. As told to me by Luis when he came up to visit us last month:

"The Opus story is a very crazy one," he related. "Back in 1954 Madagascar sent some samples of new coffee plant genetics to Ethiopia. In 1964 this Racemosa, a coffee plant, which never hybrids with Arabica coffee plants, was then sent from Ethiopia to Brazil. When these plants arrived in Brazil they had to be in quarantine for two or three months to make sure there was no new disease. They were all together in one small plantation but one plant in the nursery cross-fertilized with an Arabica. One researcher saw this plant was different and he checked and he saw that it had more chromosomes. That one single plant was crossed with the Bourbon coffee that is grown in Brazil. And that plant became aramosa (as in "Arabica" + "Racemosa"), then later it came to be called guarani, named for the Indian tribe tupy-guarani."

"In 1993 we made a contract with this research center to have in our farm one area to research all the varieties that they had. So we started to research. Every year we planted 470 plants. Of those you take 17 that produce well and 17 that have good taste, and you cross them. Then we wait two and half years, plant again, and when you finally get to the fifth generation you've dropped what is called "non-conformable trees" down from 80 percent to about 20 percent and that's when you have commercially viable production. This year we could have our first crop...just twelve 132-pound bags. That's it. After cleaning it was only ten bags. This is Opus 1."

Like I said, Rule #10 of the Natural Laws essay says that it takes a lot longer to make something great happen then most people realize. Opus 1 coffee qualifies on both counts — very long in the making and very special. The coffee is noteworthy in this context, simply because of how many years of careful patient work it's taken to have it available for sale, even in these super limited quantities.

But beyond its story, the Opus is amazing for two reasons. The first is the one that just about everyone else other than me seems to be talking about most, which is that Opus 1 is naturally low in caffeine. Don't read this wrong — Opus 1 is not a decaf. It's a unique bean that naturally just has a LOT less caffeine — about 70 percent less than what's found in most coffees. That's definitely a nice thing. But while most people outside of here seem all wound up about that, what I'm actually more excited about is how great it tastes. It's pretty special stuff — a gentle, light to medium body, nutty, notably floral (Allen says lavender or roses), hints of herbs...it's just really pretty delicious!

Can one live without Opus 1? At thirty-something dollars a pound, of course you can — the world's been moving along just fine without it for all of human existence. Will you want some anyways? I think that anyone that's really intrigued by great tasting, interesting (and not particularly darkly roasted) coffees ought to get a taste. As a history major I'd probably do it just so I could say I tasted some the first year it came out but then because it tastes so good I'd go back and buy more to drink and appreciate it while it's here. I'm forecasting going to end up being a very famous coffee, maybe the Kona of the 21st century? Since it takes so long for these things to unfold, I can't really say when or where Opus 1 will have formally "arrived" but it's en route to being something very special and very memorable. I appreciate the efforts of all involved in getting it here — from whoever stuck those first trees on a boat from Madagascar through to everyone at Daterra to Allen bringing it to Ann Arbor and roasting it so the rest of us can enjoy it.

If you want to try some of this special coffee, it's on the website for mail order, available by the pot Next Door or at the Roadhouse, or on the shelf at the Deli. Great gift for anyone who's heavily into special coffees.

5. Mozzarella in Myrtle at the Creamery
I think this is one of the most wonderfully unique things we've got around here and it's really good for holiday entertaining stuff so I'm sticking it in here. It's a specialty of the Cilento region south of Naples, that I came across it a five or so years ago when I had the chance to visit the area. I'd never really seen anything like it anywhere else. So given our love for traditional full flavored foods and the fact that we already do so much work with mozzarella it seemed like a natural to get this one going here in Ann Arbor. Thanks to John and the crew at the Creamery it's available on a regular basis here in town, and in its little corner of Italy part of Southern Italy. And as far as I know, that's about the only places I've seen it.

Anyways, as I saw (and later ate) on my visit to the Cilento, it's traditional to make small braids of fresh mozzarella, then surrounded them in a little bouquet of fresh myrtle leaves that are still on the branch. The cheeses are sometimes eaten fresh as is, in which context the mozzarella is subtly scented with a lovely bit of...shall we say, "herbality," from the myrtle. But what really got my attention when I was there came when they showed me how to put it in the oven to heat it before you eat it. It's incredibly easy — you just stick the bouquet (cheese and leaves both) in a 350°F oven just as they come from the Creamery (well, OK, you do take them out of the paper we wrap them in) and leave 'em there 'til the cheese is starting to get pretty soft. I like to put a loaf of Paesano bread from the Bakehouse in the oven at the same time to eat the cheese with when it's ready. Pull the whole thing out, put it on a hot plate, cut the string that holds the leaves in place. Pour on a bit of good green olive oil — the olio nuovo from Pasolivo or Tiburtini, either of the Sardinian oils or the Podere Forte from Tuscany are on my mind — and add a bit of black pepper and sea salt if you like.

Anyways, back to the cheese. Eat it while it's hot — the idea is to scoop it up with bread while it's soft — the warm Paesano will definitely work really well. I think it's pretty delicious. The myrtle leaves develop a wonderful smoky sweetness in the oven, and if you eat a bit of it here and there with the cheese you get a nice touch of pepperiness and a very aromatic, somewhat ethereal, almost religiously sensual flavor. It is exceptionally good.

PS: Since I'm one of a small minority of odd people who prefer to cheese to chocolate. I can tell you that if you know someone like that in your life and you wanted to get them something for a host/ess gift this'd be a nice little bouquet to bring.