Cabbage

Two of these cheese-and-potato cakes are ample for a main course with maybe a spinach or chicory salad to follow.

Of all the flavors that seem to bring out the rest of the cabbage family’s earthy greenness, few work as effectively as those of Southeast Asia. Ginger, green onion, and garlic have a natural affinity with chlorophyll-rich vegetables of any sort, but the saltiness of the fish sauces with which Thai and Vietnamese cooks season their food does much for cabbage leaves. I often serve this with roast duck, which appreciates such seasoning, or as a side order for a mushroom stir-fry hot with chiles and soy.

The dressing is enough for four and will keep in the fridge for several days.

All of the brassica family have an affinity with cream and cheese, yet it is those grown for their heads rather than their leaves that seem to get the comfort of dairy produce. Cauliflower and broccoli have long been served under a blanket of cheese and cream, but less so cabbage and the leafier greens. The reason, I have always assumed, is that the cabbage would be overcooked by the time the sauce has formed a crust in the hot oven. In practice, the “white” cabbages that sit on supermarket shelves like rock-hard footballs can be put to good use in a gratin. Their leaves and stalks are juicy when blanched in boiling water and the thicker leaves hold up very well under a sharp cheese sauce, flecked with nutmeg and hot white pepper. I mostly use a cabbage gratin as a friend for a piece of boiled ham or bacon, especially one that has been simmered in apple juice with juniper berries and onion, but sometimes we eat it as it comes, as a TV dinner, like cauliflower cheese. My suggestion of Cornish Yarg is only because I have used it here to good effect. Any briskly flavored cheese is suitable.

There will be quite a bit of this left over for the next day. Lovely reheated with cold ham.

A preserved duck leg from the deli has saved my supper more times than I can count. Cased in its own white fat and crisped up in the oven or in a sauté pan, these “duck confit” are as near as I get to eating ready-made food. One January, arriving home cold and less than 100 percent, I stripped the meat from a couple of duck legs and used it to add protein to an express version of one of those lovingly tended cabbage and bean soups. The result was a slightly chaotic bowlful of food that felt as if it should be eaten from a scrubbed pine table in a French cave house. An extraordinarily heartwarming supper, immensely satisfying. An edible version of the sort of people one refers to as “the salt of the earth.” I am certain no one would have guessed it hadn’t spent the entire afternoon puttering away in a cast-iron pot.

February 2008. The garden is all frost and cabbages. Here and there the occasional fat seed head, some purple sprouts on bending stalks, and piles of sticks that I have pulled off the trees that overhang the vegetable patch. The earth is crisp underfoot. Soup days. The winter cabbages, especially Savoy and Protovoy, are blistered with webs and hollows that seem made to hold a sauce of some sort. At its simplest, this could be melted butter or hot bacon fat, but a cream sauce seems an especially attractive idea on a cold day, adding suavity to a coarse flavor and at a stroke tempering the leaves’ stridency. The juniper in the spiced cream that follows makes this a perfect accompaniment to ham or roast pork, though I have been known to eat it with brown rice as a main dish in itself.

The brassicas are much revered in Chinese cooking, and dealt with elsewhere in this book, but the white cabbage, with its waxy leaves and crisp stalks, makes an excellent candidate for seasoning with the saltier accompaniments. On cold, rather gray days, the sort of day when nothing much happens, I often crave robust, dominating flavors—perhaps in a quest to inject some vigor into the occasion. Strident greens tossed in lip-tingling oyster sauce can be such a dish. In the last four or five years, this has become one of those recipes I use as a “knee-jerk” accompaniment—an alternative to opening a bag of frozen peas. It is excellent with grilled pork chops, though I have also eaten it atop a bowl of steamed rice before now.

The frugality implied in the words “cabbage soup” appeals to me just as much as the fanciful descriptions of Michelin-starred menus. The words evoke a rich simplicity where nothing unnecessary intrudes. This is indeed a soup of extraordinary solace, gratifying in its purity. The stark fact that this was a meal formed in poverty is there for all to see. Portugal has a cabbage soup, perhaps the best known of all, caldo verde. It is made with couve gallego, a yellow-flowered kale, whose leaves are flatter and less plumelike than the kale we generally buy in the market. The other ingredients are from the pantry, but should include a few slices of chorizo if the soup is to have any authenticity. This soup works with any coarse-textured greens and eminently, I think, with Savoy cabbage.

Early January 2008 and I am having my annual tidy up of the pantry. The “lentil shuffle” as I call it, as that is basically what the job entails. Sorting out the pantry always results in my making something bean or lentil oriented. I think it must remind me of just how many I have. What follows is a rather hot bean curry. You could cool its ardor by skipping a chile or two. The greens offer a hit of cool freshness on top of the substantial and deeply spiced beans. A speedier version, suitable for a midweek supper, can be made with canned beans. There is no real reason why you shouldn’t use any dried or canned beans you wish here. Chickpeas will work well too. If I do decide to open a can instead, then I use three 14-ounce (400g) cans.

The sour crispness of red cabbage makes it a good ingredient for a relish. Something stirring—hot, sharp, sour, bright—to introduce to a gamey pâté or a wedge of pork pie with softly collapsing pastry. Not normally given to making pickles and chutneys, I find this startling relish manageable without feeling I am going too far down the preserving route.

Raw cabbage, especially the tight, white variety, would be good here if the idea of raw sprouts doesn’t grab you.

This pretty scarlet salad is enhanced by dulse (shown opposite), a sea vegetable with a rich, meaty taste—try toasted dulse in place of bacon in a DLT! Several eco-friendly companies along the North American Atlantic coast harvest dulse by hand in small boats, dry it outside, and sell it with minimal packaging. When toasting dulse, pass it back and forth a few times over a flame and then let it cool. The texture should be crisp and crackly. If the dulse is still soft, repeat this process until it breaks up easily. Toasting it gently and gradually prevents burning.

Pockets made from fried tofu skins are convenient for making a quick finger food for parties, and they don’t require any dipping sauce. Find the pockets in Japanese markets in the dry foods or refrigerated section; they come preseasoned with sugar and soy. You’ll find kimchi, the sweet and spicy fermented cabbage condiment, at the same store. Although it originated in Korea, kimchi is also very popular in Japan.

Yuba, also called tofu skin, is sturdy and easy to work with. Its crisp texture when baked makes it an ideal wrapper for spring rolls. Find dried or frozen yuba sheets at Japanese food stores.

Fried oysters are a staple of izakaya, the eating pubs that can be found in every Japanese neighborhood. These kinds of establishments are much more popular than bars, because we typically like to nibble on something while we enjoy a drink. In fact, this dish is one of my favorite complements to a frosty mug of draught beer. You’ll see that I don’t season the cabbage slaw in this recipe. In Japan, we typically create our own impromptu dressing with the two sauces for the oysters.

The funny thing about gyoza is that I never cooked them—until I moved to America. Back home I always went out for these extremely popular, garlic-infused pan-fried dumplings, which have a special place in the hearts of Japanese. When I arrived in America, gyoza was one of the comfort foods I missed the most, so I started cooking them at home. That’s when I realized how easy it is to prepare perfect gyoza: they simply need a fragrant, juicy, flavor-packed filling; crispy skin on the bottom and silky skin on top; and a spicy dipping sauce. Now my kids and I love to make homemade gyoza together. This recipe is the classic pork-filled version that I grew up with. Keep in mind that you can conveniently freeze uncooked gyoza for up to a month. To prepare, follow the fry-steam technique below with the frozen dumplings—no need to defrost. Just extend the cooking time by 3 minutes. Note: You can also prepare this dish without pork belly. Just substitute more ground pork (1 pound total). But I love using pork belly here because it adds so much flavor and richness to the gyoza.

These irresistible ribs are an import from China that have been adopted—and adapted—by Japanese cooks. I like to prepare them with classic Chinese five-spice seasoning, because I love the rich fragrance and flavors of this mixture of cinnamon, anise seed, star anise, cloves, and ginger. But many cooks in Japan prefer to make the spareribs with simply sansho pepper or freshly ground black pepper and salt (use 1 teaspoon of either pepper with 1/2 teaspoon of kosher salt). Try these different spice combinations to see which ones you like best!

America’s Deep South isn’t the only place that loves fried chicken: tatsuta-age is Japan’s own delicious version, which my family and I are addicted to! Our fried chicken is marinated with traditional Japanese aromatic flavorings and served with a refreshing and savory slaw. You can enjoy this versatile dish hot and crispy, or pack it for a picnic and eat it at room temperature—it travels extremely well. Tatsuta-age is also a perfect leftover food. It keeps in the fridge for several days without losing its flavor, and you can turn the boneless chunks into a delicious sandwich. When I was a kid, my mother often included this fried chicken in my lunchbox, a treat I happily share with my own school-age children today. Don’t use the breast for this dish—the legs and thighs have much more flavor. Be sure to keep the skin on, too.

To tell you the truth, I first created this dish by accident, when I added lamb instead of beef by mistake. But when I tasted it, I realized it was no mistake! Lamb might not be a traditional Japanese ingredient, but it’s delicious when mixed with these Asian flavors and vegetables. If you prefer beef, though, you can always use that instead. Follow the fresh Egg Pasta recipe on page 112, but leave out the optional squid ink.