A restaurant I once visited inCrete serves a salad with 45components. No, that isn't a typo – and the figure doesn't even include what's in the dressing, either. And yes, they were awfully proud of this accomplishment. I, on the other hand, was less impressed.
Now before you say anything, I am well aware that if my cooking style were to be summed up in three words, "Pared-down minimalist" would not be among them. I readily admit to piling up the spices and crowding plates with herbs and aromatics; 18 ingredients in a single dish is not unusual for me. Ilike tothink, however, that there is acertain cohesion there, a logic thatjustifies my choices.
How does one decide, then? What is the ideal number of ingredients in a dish? And when is a good moment to stop adding more?
There isn't a definitive answer to any of these. First off, it depends which culinary tradition you grew up on. Many southern and south-east Asian cuisines, say, rely heavily on aromatic pastes that often include a long list of spices, herbs and other seasonings. Most European traditions, on the other hand, call for a less intricate list of ingredients; the Italians, in particular, are masters at making asmall number of good ingredients come together in a sublime way. Middle Eastern food, as the name implies, sits somewhere in between.
I generally believe in following thespirit of the law when it comes to food, but not every single rule in the book. So when I cook Italian, Ido try to keep to the over-riding less-is-more principle, even if I am occasionally irreverent in adding ahint of chilli and some fresh mint to my pesto, say. When I get into the Indian spirit, however, I normally follow the more-is-more mantra, even if Ido end up dropping a spice or two alongthe way.
Still, as a maximalist by nature, Itend to expand my ingredient list more often than Icompress it. My tip to those with a similar predisposition is always to ask yourself what would happen if youlost an ingredient from a dish. The marinade I used here in aThai-style fried chicken a few weeks ago, for example, initially featured sesame oil and mint leaves that Iended up being content to drop; the lime leaves, coriander and shallots, on the other hand, just had to stay.
You will find that some of your own kitchen classics could do with an occasional paring down. This week's recipes are a testimony to this principle and, for me, a test inself-restraint.
Baked asparagus with parmesan and poppy seeds
Jeremy Lee at Quo Vadis serves fresh asparagus wrapped in the crispest, lightest of pastries. I am not entirely sure how he does it, butthis version, using commercial pastry, gets pretty close. Serves fouras a first course orsnack.
2 large (24cm x 48cm) sheets filopastry
2-3 tbsp olive oil
16 thick stemmed asparagus spears, woody stems trimmed
1 egg, whisked
30g parmesan, finely grated
1½ tsp poppy seeds
1 tsp coarse sea salt
Heat the oven to 200C/390F/gas mark 6. Put both sheets of filo on top of each other and cut widthways across the middle. Arrange the filo into one pile, then cut the pile into four squares so you end up with 16 filo pastry squares in total.
You will now need to work fast, otherwise the filo will dry out. Lay one filo square on awork surface and brush with plenty of olive oil. Place one asparagus spear at the bottom edge of each square, with the florets exposed, then roll in the pastry to wrap up securely – you're aiming for a cigar shape with the asparagus head sticking out. Brush each asparagus parcel with egg and sprinkle over some parmesan, poppy seeds and salt. Place the parcel on a baking tray lined with parchment paper, and repeat with the remaining filo and asparagus.
Bake for 18 minutes, until the pastry is crisp and the asparagus cooked through. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Fetteh
If hummus had a cousin, these soft-cooked chickpeas with thick, warm yoghurt and toasted pitta would be it. It's my kind of comfort food, too – Icould eat far too much of it at any time of the day, and especially for aweekend brunch. Serves six.
400g chickpeas, soaked overnight in plenty of cold water and 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
Salt
140g unsalted butter
250g pitta bread, torn into roughly 5cm chunks
80g pine nuts
450g Greek yoghurt
3 medium tomatoes, roughly grated and skin discarded
1½ tbsp lemon juice
½ tbsp hot paprika
Drain and rinse the soaked chickpeas, then put them in a medium saucepan, cover with plenty of water and place on a high heat. When the pot comes to a boil, turn down the heat to medium and simmer, uncovered, for 50 minutes, until the chickpeas are soft and starting to break up; skim the surface as and when needed to get rid of any impurities. Drain the chickpeas, reserving 200ml of the cooking liquid as you do so. Put thereserved cooking liquid and chickpeas back in the pan, add twoteaspoons of salt and set aside.
Put a large frying pan on a medium-high heat with 50g of the butter. Once it's melted, add half the pitta pieces and fry for two minutes, stirring constantly, so that they turn golden-brown all over. Transfer to aplate lined with kitchen paper, and repeat with another 50g of butter and the remaining pitta.
Once all the pitta is done, turn theheat under the frying pan to medium and add the final 40g of butter. Add the pine nuts, cook for aminute or two, stirring, until golden-brown, then tip into a small bowl and set aside.
When ready to serve, warm the chickpeas on a medium-high heat for five or so minutes, stirring constantly and squashing half the chickpeas with the back of the spoon, until most of the water hasevaporated or been absorbed.
In a medium saucepan, warm through the yoghurt on a gentle heat for a minute or two, taking care that it doesn't boil and split.
Spoon the chickpeas on to plates or bowls and dot with the fried pitta.Pour over the warmed yoghurt, and top with the grated tomato and the pine nuts. Drizzle over the lemon juice, sprinkle on thepaprika and serve at once.
Slow-cooked beef shin with french beans
Jewish Sephardi food often involves cooking a small number of cheap ingredients for a very long time to maximise flavour and keep costs low. As cooking is not permitted onthe Sabbath, these dishes are also practical, because they are kept warm throughout the day, providing a constant source of food. Although cooking green beans for solong goes against all my basic instincts, I am happy to stomach the loss in texture here in favour of the deep, meaty flavour they gain as a result.
This is a rustic dish that calls onlyfor crusty white bread or a bowl of rice to accompany it. I love this simplicity, but if you want to give it a little boost, blitz some fresh parsley with garlic and olive oil, and stir into the stew just before serving, along with a little lemon juice and/or a couple of spoonfuls of yoghurt. This dish will taste even better the next day. Serves four.
75ml sunflower oil or light olive oil
1.1kg beef shin steaks, trimmed andcut into 2cm cubes
4 tsp paprika
1 tsp cayenne
1 tbsp ground cumin
Salt
700g french beans (trimmed weight)
Pour the oil into a large, heavy skillet for which you have a lid and put on ahigh heat. Once hot, add half of the beef and fry for eight minutes, turning the meat every two minutes, so it browns all over. Remove from the pan and set aside, then repeat with the remaining beef.
Put all the browned meat in the pan with the paprika, cayenne, cumin and a teaspoon and a quarter of salt. Cook for a minute, stirring, then add the beans and 150ml water. Turn down the heat to medium-low, cover the pan and leave to simmer for two and a quarter hours, until the beef is very tender and only about four tablespoons of liquid are left in the pan – while it's cooking, give the meat a stir every 20 minutes or so, to prevent it sticking to the base of the pan. You can add a few more tablespoons of water, but only if youneed to. Serve at once.
Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi and Nopi in London.
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