I made oak ice cream today. The hoopla about Nordic cuisine has, until now, been a parade I've watched pass by my kitchen window. When I try to imagine the flavor elements of the new cooking in Scandinavia, pine needles, salted fish, cured reindeer meat, and gravlax on rye come to mind. As food, none of them repulse me. Rather they evoke in my imagination a spare cuisine for an austere age, in other words, not the makings of an indulgent dinner party. If we thought the new molecular gastronomy was flavorful but meager, Nordic cuisine has struck me as appropriate in a survivalist era, when we are all obligated to hunker down and assist the earth through a rough patch of a millennium or so.
The recipe for oak ice cream in the New York Times held my attention as soon as I noticed it here. How was I meant to reconcile the exquisite flavor of oak smoke in, say, brisket (especially Franklin's brisket) with the unctuous decliciousness of ice cream? I couldn't imagine it until, that is, I went in search of culinary quality oak chips. At The Brewmeister in West Sacramento, an employee showed me one-pound bags of American oak chips and French oak chips. What's the difference? I asked. As soon as he spoke the words, "more vanilla notes in French oak than in American oak," I said I'd take the French. Eight dollars for a pound felt like a bargain. And why didn't I think of the vanilla notes before? Since it's been years since I've drunk oaky malolactic Chardonnay, it didn't occur to me when I first contemplated making the ice cream. The guy's face lit up when I explained what I would do with the chips. He prefers oak when he infuses beer and spirits, like bourbon.
At home, I made the custard base. The oak-infused cream and milk turned the color of light mocha. I was hoping for the golden tone in the NYT image that accompanies the recipe, but never mind. The custard sat in the refrigerator overnight. Next morning, I churned it in my ice cream maker. I stuck my finger in the frozen cream. Salted caramel! And cinnamon! Wait. Then came the not-so-faint breath of oak at the back of my throat. Extraordinary.
Now I'm wondering what other surprises Nouveau Nordic has. Faviken's cooking doesn't seem suited to a home kitchen. Who is the Yotam Ottolenghi of Scandinavia?
The recipe for oak ice cream in the New York Times held my attention as soon as I noticed it here. How was I meant to reconcile the exquisite flavor of oak smoke in, say, brisket (especially Franklin's brisket) with the unctuous decliciousness of ice cream? I couldn't imagine it until, that is, I went in search of culinary quality oak chips. At The Brewmeister in West Sacramento, an employee showed me one-pound bags of American oak chips and French oak chips. What's the difference? I asked. As soon as he spoke the words, "more vanilla notes in French oak than in American oak," I said I'd take the French. Eight dollars for a pound felt like a bargain. And why didn't I think of the vanilla notes before? Since it's been years since I've drunk oaky malolactic Chardonnay, it didn't occur to me when I first contemplated making the ice cream. The guy's face lit up when I explained what I would do with the chips. He prefers oak when he infuses beer and spirits, like bourbon.
At home, I made the custard base. The oak-infused cream and milk turned the color of light mocha. I was hoping for the golden tone in the NYT image that accompanies the recipe, but never mind. The custard sat in the refrigerator overnight. Next morning, I churned it in my ice cream maker. I stuck my finger in the frozen cream. Salted caramel! And cinnamon! Wait. Then came the not-so-faint breath of oak at the back of my throat. Extraordinary.
Now I'm wondering what other surprises Nouveau Nordic has. Faviken's cooking doesn't seem suited to a home kitchen. Who is the Yotam Ottolenghi of Scandinavia?
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