Charred, browned and blackened

THE DARK LURE OF BURNT FOOD HAS DEEP ROOTS IN MANY CUISINES

Smoke is shorthand for culinary catastrophe, setting off alarms in the kitchen and jitters in nervous cooks. But some foods will reward you for pushing them right over the edge, past done and headed toward burned.

“My burning method of choice is the broiler,” said chef Gerardo Gonzalez, who draws inspiration from traditional Mexican moles to make his own at Lalo, the restaurant he opened last fall in Chinatown in Manhattan.

Gonzalez starts his mole with almonds, cashews, peanuts and pumpkinseeds, which are all toasted zealously, to the darkest possible shade of brown. “Just before they go black,” he said.

From the blackened avocados at Nix to the lamb heart ashes at Aska, burned and charred foods may seem like just another fad sweeping through pyrotechnically inclined restaurants. But burning, a technique that can involve a surprising amount of shading and subtlety, has deep roots in many cuisines.

A great kazandibi, the Turkish milk pudding, requires a totally scorched bottom to fulfil its delicious potential, the milk pushed to the same shade as a firelicked marshmallow. Any dessert that relies on a touch of burned sugar, from flan to crème brûlée, will go limp and lifeless if that caramel is cooked too lightly. And there are few primal delights like the burned ends of a barbecued brisket, crisp-edged and fierce with smoke.

Gonzalez, 34, who was raised in San Diego by parents from Jalisco, Mexico, first toyed with burning when he cooked at El Rey Coffee Bar & Luncheonette, Incorporating a burned vegetable or fruit into a vegetarian dish will produce and almost meat-like depth of flavour. a café on the Lower East Side in Manhattan that developed a cult following while he was in the kitchen.

He says Mexican cuisine has taught him how incorporating a burned vegetable or fruit, like onion or citrus, into vegetarian dishes will produce a serious, almost meat-like depth of flavour.

His mole, cooked down with charred tomatillos, onions and oranges, is based on the flavours of his youth, plumped up with the body and sweetness of dried apricots and plums. He deploys it in small amounts to intensify a bowl of hominy in broth.

Gonzalez himself is mindful of the potential health risks in some browned foods; he generally avoids deeply charring meats because of studies that show it produces chemicals that can increase the risk of cancer.

Many people have a taste for thoroughly browned foods, crusty corners and inky, bittersweet edges — in moderation. To understand the appeal of these strategically charred foods, I spoke with Andrea Nguyen, 47, a cookbook author and cooking teacher who lives in Santa Cruz, Calif. She said it was a matter of both taste and looks.

“Charred food always draws you in more, whets your appetite,” she said.

It’s why nuoc mau, a burned caramel sauce, is used to elegantly expand both flavour and colour in traditional Vietnamese cooking. Sugar is cooked with a little water until it is past golden, smoking and rushing toward a glowing dark russet.

The caramel is added in small amounts to marinades, or pots of simmering meat, which it infuses with umami, bringing a savoury sweetness along with a touch of bitterness. It is not just a Gerardo Gonzalez prepares his burned-almond mole, which he pairs with octopus at Lalo, a Mexican restaurant in Manhattan’s Chinatown neighbourhood. one-dimensional burned flavour, but what Nguyen called “a liquid replication of the charred effect.”

“It’s not for ice cream,” she added.

Nuoc mau was developed by resourceful Vietnamese cooks with simple stoves, she said. Using clay pots, they didn’t always have the luxury of browning foods as they cooked. The sauce served as a kind of replacement for the Maillard reaction, the chemical dance between amino acids and sugars that produces distinct savoury notes in browned foods.

“It allowed them to create big flavours using limited resources,” Nguyen said.

Cooks throughout the Caribbean also use a sauce of burned sugar, known as browning, to amplify savoury flavours.

Though chef Rawlston Williams doesn’t draw attention to it on the menu at his Brooklyn restaurant, the Food Sermon, he uses browning to marinate and braise lamb shanks, mimicking the colouring and elemental flavour of meats roasted over a fire. “The longer it heats, the deeper and more pronounced the caramel becomes in the dish,” he said. “I don’t like it to become too profound. I like it to be a little more subtle.”

Williams, 40, learned to use browning as a child in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. While neighbours employed the technique in meat dishes, as well as in the molassescoloured fruitcake known as black cake, in Williams’ vegetarian household, it was often used to perk up the taste of seitan, a meat substitute he made from scratch.

Caramelizing the sugar thoroughly, burning it yet not completely blackening it, is the key to an effective browning sauce, no matter how it’s being used. It is through caramelization that the vapid sweetness of sugar becomes interesting.

As sugar turns from pale gold to brown, the chemical reactions result in new flavours: acidity, tang and alcoholic notes, along with a more nuanced sweetness. They also introduce a little bitterness, which can add dimension.

“Everyone is so afraid of burning things,” Canadian author Jennifer McLagan said. “But when you’re burning, you’re creating all of these different compounds that make food more complex in taste, and much more interesting to eat.”

For her 2014 cookbook, “Bitter: A Taste of the World’s Most Dangerous Flavor,” McLagan, 63, developed a recipe for toast soup, based on a French country dish that stretches leftover bread into a meal. What sounds like a sad Dickensian sort of ration is in fact a strong case for burning good sourdough.

Exercised with care, the dark arts of burning can conjure a world of flavour. But cooks have to push things a little further than usual, to fight their instincts and ignore the flutter of panic that sets in when food goes beyond a textbook golden brown into darker terrain, and curls of smoke send a warning that something has gone terribly wrong.

“When I’m pulling something from the salamander, someone is always walking by saying, ‘Uh-oh, somebody burned something!’” Gonzalez said. “I’m like, ‘Yes, that’s the whole point.’”

In a small stockpot or Dutch oven, cook bacon over low to medium heat until cooked through but not crisp. Reserve a few pieces of bacon for garnish, if desired. Pour the chicken stock over the bacon, bring to a simmer and remove from heat. Let stand for 20 minutes.

Toast the bread slices under a broiler or in a toaster, allowing them to blacken on the edges and turn deep brown all over. Add toast to the stock, ripping it up if it does not fit in the pot. Let stand for 10 minutes so the toast can soak up the stock.

Meanwhile, heat the milk in another pan until it steams, then add it to the pot. Add mustard and vinegar, season with salt and pepper. Use an immersion blender to purée the mixture until smooth or transfer to a blender to purée, then return to the pot. Heat gently. When hot, whisk in the butter until it disappears into the soup. Add salt and pepper to taste, garnish with reserved bacon.