by Edward Lee
There is a circular Zen-like philosophy in starting with a patch of grass on a field and linking it all the way through cows and milk and human sustenance and back to grass. Getting into the chemical composition of soil is probably not what you’re reading this for, so suffice it to say, if you were potting an herb that you wanted to eventually use in your food, you wouldn’t dump a bunch of pesticides in it, would you? Think about that the next time you dump weed killer on your lawn. Clover, after all, is a weed.
“The vitality of land influences the species and behaviors of organisms that live in soil. Soil health affects the varieties, chemical characteristics, and behaviors of plants. That in turn affects the nutrition and health of herbivores. Ultimately, the health and well-being of people is intertwined with the health of soil through plants and herbivores.”
—Fred Provenza, Department of Wildland Resources, Utah State University
Birds & Bluegrass
Take a city kid out of his hood and drop him in the middle of the Bible Belt without a lick of knowledge about his environs, and you’ve got me when I moved to Kentucky. I was in the land of fried chicken, bourbon, and country ham; college hoops; bluegrass music; horse racing; mint juleps; and deep religion. The first thing I did when I got there was to sign up for horseback-riding lessons. I figured that’s what everyone did on the weekends. I nearly broke my groin the first day. I suffered three more weeks of soreness and steady humiliation in the hopes of impressing some old-time Kentuckians with my equine abilities. When I finally got a chance to meet a true blue-blooded, white-haired, bourbon-sipping gentleman of unquestionable lineage, I hardly waited for an introduction before I made my announcement. I told him I’d be happy to accompany him on a sunny afternoon of riding. His wife gave me that “Oh, bless his heart” kind of look. He laughed through his mustache and replied, “Son, we don’t riiide haw-ses, we buy ’em.” I canceled my lessons.
Eddie and Sharon were the original proprietors of 610 Magnolia, the storied restaurant that I would inherit. It was their idea that I leave New York City to start anew in Louisville. During my visit in 2002, they had seen in me something that I could not see myself: the will to succeed. I was eager but broken, curious but jaded. They offered me an opportunity to reboot. They offered me 610 Magnolia: their baby, which they’d spent the last twenty-seven gutsy years nurturing with an elegance and sass only they could get away with. How could you say no to that? Well, I did. I stayed in New York and festered away in a restaurant I didn’t want anymore. Every few weeks I’d get a call from Eddie checking in on me. They were polite but aimless conversations, I thought, yet all the while he was gauging my level of misery. One weekend, he casually mentioned that a man by the name of Brook happened to be passing through New York City and that it would behoove me to have lunch with him. I knew enough not to decline.
When Brook called, I was butchering chickens. He was cautious and courteous, but you can tell a person’s standing by how they invite you to lunch. There’s never any indecision about it. It’s not, “Well, I was thinking of trying . . .” It’s more like, “I got us a table at Balthazar at noon.” I washed my face and did my best imitation of “I’m too cool to dress up for this lunch but I’m respectful enough to wear a clean shirt, which if you knew me, you’d know is huge, because I don’t put on a clean white shirt for just anyone.” We sat down and got into some oysters. Brook was slow to start and let me do the talking at first. Then we got into some Châteauneuf-du-Pape and steak frites. I was ready for a pitch, for talking numbers, percentages, all that. Instead, he talked about trains and how they leave the station, and when they leave the station, you are either on the train or left behind on the platform. He talked about horses and jockeys and betting on winners and how you have to start from the rear sometimes to see the field before you can begin your sprint. We got into a second bottle of wine. He talked about music and contemporary art and California wine. Everything was a Kentucky allegory, and I was getting hazy and thinking, “What does any of this have to do with me?” Brook talked about my success as a foregone conclusion, like I was already in Kentucky, like I’d already made up my mind. He talked and talked, and one sentence found its way into ten more without any break. By the time I finally lifted my face out of my wineglass, I was shaking his hand, like a pilgrim to the pope. “Welcome to Louisville,” he said, and grinned.
And that’s how I got here.
After I quit riding horses, I was itching to do something else. Hunting was next on my list. People warned me that I’d lose my appetite for birds by being so close to the kill—that the violence would be too much to stomach. I worried too. Guns, where I came from, were used on people, not animals. Rifles and camouflage were for zealots. Why go out and kill a beast in the wild when everything we need is neatly wrapped up for us in supermarkets? Hunting seemed at best inhumane, at worst a window into the depravity of the human soul.
I arrive before dawn for my first duck hunt, wearing jeans and a hoodie and carrying a flask of bourbon, which I’ve been sipping on since 4 a.m. Liquid courage is better than no courage at all. Mike is the one guy I know. He introduces me to the rest of the crew and we shake hands, illuminated only by the headlights of their Jeep Cherokees. We drive to Simpsonville with bags of beef jerky and Skoal Bandits littered across the dashboard.
There’s a lot to do before a duck hunt besides finding the nearest pond. You have to map out the ducks’ flight patterns, set out the decoys, find cover to hide the blinds, test the calls, and load the 12-gauge. Most of this is done in darkness. We share a quick slug of bourbon before sliding into our blinds just in time to see the first pulse of dawn lifting out through the maples. I shove a pinch of chaw into my cheek and wait for the waterfowl. I’m alone in my blind. The shotgun is resting on my right shoulder, safety off. I hear the guys bantering back and forth, but they’re talking to the sky and sounding distant. The only thing close is my breathing. I’m worried I won’t be able to bounce up out of the blind and pull the trigger. There’s no time to aim. It’s five shotguns screaming at a formation of ducks. What if I miss? What if I spook them before they get close enough? I nod off to sleep. Then I hear a voice checking on me. I answer that I’m A-okay. They heard me snoring. I have to pee, but I don’t dare suggest getting out of my blind. The sky is the perfect color for an alfresco brunch. I’m thinking how much I love ricotta pancakes and cantaloupe when it is just freshly sliced, before it turns opaque and tastes like the inside of a refrigerator.
Out of nowhere, Mike starts his duck call. Chris is waving flags. The rest of the crew is sounding their calls. I wrap my finger around the trigger. From the north comes a small formation so far away the ducks may as well be clouds. They pass us by in slow motion and disappear behind the trees. “They’ll be back,” Mike says, and he keeps blowing into the blank sky. Sure enough, they come back, much closer now. They are circling in wide arcs, pitching, then retracing the pattern. They disappear behind me for so long it seems they’ve forsaken us, but they come back again, even closer now. I lose them in the sun, but I can hear them. The duck calls are hitting a crescendo. I’m ready to jump out of my skin. They’re about thirty yards out and they set their wings, their legs extended like landing gear. The blinds split open and I hear shots explode in unison. Mine goes off a half second behind. I see feathers and carcasses. I have one more shot. I lean in too close, and this time the gun kicks back and punches my right cheek. I’m blinded for a second as I shake the pain out of my head. When I clear the smoke out of my eyes, I see that I’ve shot a decoy. Shot the bejeezus out of him.
The guys had a good laugh over the decoy. They actually gave it to me as my first kill. We dressed the three real ducks and put them on ice in a cooler, then sat down to breakfast. The conversation turned to cooking different fowl, from ducks to wild turkeys to chukars and doves. Each hunt has its own vocabulary, its own dogma. Each one is a different set of thrills. It hit me that far from being zealots, these g
uys were gourmands. They were lawyers and real estate agents and traders. But beyond that, they were a tribe of men sharing in the process of a feast. It felt good to laugh, to be included. They sent me home with bags of frozen game from past hunts, and later that week I made them pheasant and dumplings, fried quail, venison sliders, and roast duck. We ate huge that night. No spouses, no outsiders. Just us and some wine and whiskey and lots of stories, some so unbelievable the person telling them couldn’t even keep a straight face.
There are certain salutations in Louisville that feel like hugs. From the very beginning, every time I would go out of town and return, Eddie and Sharon would say to me, “Welcome home.” It was a nice thing to hear, even when I didn’t believe it myself. But little by little, it started to ring true. I learned to ask people how they were doing and really mean it. I waved at strangers. They waved back. Amazing. The more I felt at home in Louisville, the more I became curious about its history and what its environs had to offer. I was eager to explore this new world outside the four walls of my kitchen. And soon I would get to explore the rabbit hole as deep as it would take me.
Rice Bowl with Chicken, Orange, Peanuts, and Miso Rémoulade
The chicken patties in this recipe are mixed with grated daikon radish, which lightens the texture and adds a vegetal note to it. The patties are not limited to this dish alone. Shape them into meatballs for a great snack, or form them into larger patties and you have the beginnings of a killer chicken burger. Miso and chicken are a natural pairing; the nutty saltiness of the fermented soybeans contrasts with the mild creaminess of the chicken. Use organic chicken, please. With all that we now know about the added hormones and antibiotics in commercially raised poultry, there’s no excuse not to use organic. / Feeds 4 as a main course or 6 as an appetizer
Miso Rémoulade
2 tablespoons red miso
1 tablespoon Asian sesame oil
⅓ cup fresh orange juice
½ teaspoon soy sauce
½ teaspoon sugar
¼ cup Perfect Rémoulade (page 6)
Chicken Sausage Topping
1 pound ground chicken, preferably organic chicken breasts
½ cup finely grated daikon radish (see note), excess water squeezed out
1 garlic clove, finely grated (use a Microplane)
4 teaspoons Asian sesame oil
2 teaspoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons whole milk
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon maple syrup
½ teaspoon fish sauce
¾ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon sugar
3 scallions, finely chopped
About ¼ cup olive oil for panfrying
4 cups cooked rice (see page 4)
1 orange, cut into segments
2 ounces fresh bean sprouts
1½ ounces crushed peanuts (approximately ¼ cup)
1 sheet nori, cut into thin matchsticks
1To make the rémoulade: Whisk together the miso, sesame oil, orange juice, soy sauce, and sugar in a small bowl, blending well to make a creamy sauce. Mix in the rémoulade and refrigerate.
2To make the chicken sausage: Put the ground chicken in a large bowl, add all the remaining ingredients and, using your hands, mix well. Form into small quarter-sized patties and place on a baking sheet.
3Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Add about 1 tablespoon olive oil to the pan. Place only as many patties in the pan as will fit without crowding and fry for 3 minutes on each side, until browned and cooked through. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels to drain oil. Repeat with the remaining olive oil and patties.
4To serve, scoop the rice into your rice bowls. Place 2 or 3 chicken patties over the rice in each bowl. Place a few orange segments next to the chicken. Spoon about a tablespoon of the miso rémoulade over the chicken. Scatter a few bean sprouts over the sauce and sprinkle with a small amount of crushed peanuts and a pinch of nori matchsticks. Serve immediately with spoons. It is best to mix everything together before enjoying.
If you don’t have daikon radish, use raw turnips instead.
Miso-Smothered Chicken
This recipe incorporates miso and chicken again (see page 74) but in a totally different way. The braising technique allows the dark meat of the chicken thighs to absorb the miso, which cooks down to an almost peanut-butter-like flavor. It is meltingly tender, and every time I make it, I always find someone back in the kitchen scraping the last bits from the pot. I suggest making more than you need and storing the extra in an airtight container in your fridge. It will keep for at least 5 days. / Feeds 4 as a main course
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon garlic powder
4 bone-in chicken thighs
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 cups chopped yellow onions
1 tablespoon minced garlic
⅓ cup bourbon
2 cups chicken stock
½ cup fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon dark miso
8 ounces shiitake mushrooms, stems discarded, thinly sliced
Cooked rice for serving
Pineapple-Pickled Jicama (page 172)
1In a shallow dish, mix together the flour, salt, cayenne, and garlic powder. Coat the chicken thighs evenly with the mixture.
2Heat the oil in a medium Dutch oven over medium heat until it shimmers. Add the chicken pieces skin side down and cook, turning once, until golden on both sides, 8 to 10 minutes. Transfer the chicken to a paper-towel-lined plate.
3Pour off all but 2 tablespoons of oil from the pot. Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until softened and golden, 12 to 15 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the bourbon and cook until all the liquid has evaporated, about 2 minutes.
4Stir in the chicken stock, orange juice, soy sauce, and miso and bring to a simmer. Return the chicken to the pot, cover, and simmer until the chicken is cooked through and tender, about 30 minutes.
5Add the mushrooms and simmer, uncovered, until the mushrooms are tender and the sauce is thickened, to the consistency of a gravy, 10 to 15 minutes longer. Serve with rice and the pickled jicama.
Miso
Miso is found everywhere in Asian cookery. In China, it is called dòujiàng; Koreans call it daen-jang. The basic ingredients of most commercially made misos are soybeans and rice that are mixed with koji (a starter enzyme that breaks down the proteins) and salt and left to ferment for months, but miso can also contain wheat, barley, buckwheat, or millet. My friend Sean Brock, in Charleston, makes miso using fermented pecans and black walnuts!
Like many of the Asian condiments I use on a daily basis, miso adds a haunting umami element to anything it touches. There are many kinds, but the most important distinction is between light or white (shiro) miso and dark or red (aka) miso. White miso, which is actually a blond color, is very delicate, and I use it for recipes that are made with little or no heat, like vinaigrettes, dressings, and light broths. I use red miso, which is a dark mahogany color, for stews and soups that call for long cooking times or glazes that will be cooked under a hot broiler or over high heat. Don’t worry about the brand—or the Japanese writing that you can’t understand on the label—just remember this distinction, and you’ll be fine when shopping for miso.
Potato-Stuffed Roast Chicken
The perfect roasted chicken had always eluded me. There’s no way to cook the thighs through without drying out the breast. I had gone through all the recipes I could try, but I’d never quite felt satisfied with any of them. Then I started trying out the technique in this recipe (see step-by-step photograph
s on the following pages) in the privacy of my home kitchen. It makes sense: the potatoes insulate the breasts, the fat from the skin flavors the potatoes, and the breasts stay incredibly moist. And the potatoes become an extra component without any more work. I’ve made this recipe twenty different ways, and this is my favorite. It’s so easy you could do it in your sleep the second time around. My latest adjustment is to skip trussing the legs. The chicken may look a bit obscene when done, but allowing the legs to remain free allows more air to circulate around the thighs so the skin gets crispier and the meat cooks faster, in perfectly paced harmony with the insulated breasts.
For the ultimate comfort food dinner, serve the chicken with Bourbon-Ginger-Glazed Carrots (page 215) and Spoonbread with Kale and Bacon (page 204). / Feeds 4 as a main course
1 large Yukon Gold potato (about 11 ounces), peeled
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2½ teaspoons kosher salt
¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
One 3- to 3½-pound roasting chicken
2 teaspoons olive oil
1Using the large holes of a box grater, grate the potato onto a cutting board. Wrap the grated potato in a square of cheesecloth and wring out as much water as possible.
2Melt the butter in a large cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Add the grated potatoes, season with ½ teaspoon of the salt and ¼ teaspoon of the pepper, stir gently with a wooden spoon, and cook for exactly 2 minutes, no longer. Quickly transfer the potatoes to a plate and let cool.
