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Summary
Summary
The champion of uncelebrated foods including fat, offal, and bones, Jennifer McLagan turns her attention to a fascinating, underappreciated, and trending topic: bitterness.
What do coffee, IPA beer, dark chocolate, and radicchio all have in common? They're bitter. While some culinary cultures, such as in Italy and parts of Asia, have an inherent appreciation for bitter flavors (think Campari and Chinese bitter melon), little attention has been given to bitterness in North America: we're much more likely to reach for salty or sweet. However, with a surge in the popularity of craft beers; dark chocolate; coffee; greens like arugula, dandelion, radicchio, and frisée; high-quality olive oil; and cocktails made with Campari and absinthe--all foods and drinks with elements of bitterness--bitter is finally getting its due.
In this deep and fascinating exploration of bitter through science, culture, history, and 100 deliciously idiosyncratic recipes--like Cardoon Beef Tagine, White Asparagus with Blood Orange Sauce, and Campari Granita--award-winning author Jennifer McLagan makes a case for this misunderstood flavor and explains how adding a touch of bitter to a dish creates an exciting taste dimension that will bring your cooking to life.
Author Notes
JENNIFER McLAGAN is a chef and writer who has worked in Toronto, London, and Paris as well as her native Australia. She has been called courageous, a contrarian, and even a little crazy. She is definitely a provocative iconoclast who challenges us and makes us rethink our relationship to what we eat. Her award-winning books, Bones (2005), Fat (2008), and Odd Bits (2011), were widely acclaimed, and Fat was named Cookbook of the Year by the James Beard Foundation. Jennifer has presented at the highly prestigious Food & Wine Classic in Aspen, the Melbourne Food & Wine Festival master class series, the Epicurean Classic in Michigan, the Terroir Symposium in Toronto, and the Slow Food University in Italy. Jennifer divides her time between Toronto and Paris. To learn more, visit www.jennifermclagan.com.
Reviews (2)
New York Review of Books Review
ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER MOUNTAIN of cookbooks. But as always, they can be divided into two piles: for actual, and for aspirational, forays into the kitchen. Here are some of the best of both. Cal Peternell, long the chef at Chez Panisse in Berkeley, started writing TWELVE RECIPES (Morrow/HarperCollins, $26.99) for his son, who was leaving home for the first time. Peternell confesses that he had been too casual, assuming that learning to cook could be "effortlessly communicated and instinctively absorbed." To remedy that situation, earnest lessons began. "A crash course in cooking for yourself and others also goes by another name: It's called dinner." The result is the best beginner's cookbook of the year, if not the decade. In addition to being warm, funny and smart, "Twelve Recipes" will actually teach you to cook. If you already have an understanding of the basics, there are plenty of cookbooks out there, but if you've never chopped an onion, the going will be rough. Peternell begins, seemingly inauspiciously, with toast, but by the chapter's end you'll understand how he can nudge anyone, from novice to expert, to want to be a better cook, a better host, a better shopper, even a better person. The dishes get steadily more robust, and Peternell never loses sight of the goal. Chickens will be roasted, pasta will be boiled, beans will be soaked and dinner will be made. His wit and intelligence are apparent throughout: "Adding a chopped hard-boiled egg to salsa verde for the first time is a little epiphany, one of those moments when you can feel it all coming together with an almost audible crack. Be ready for it." The other strategy for teaching people to cook is to teach them to cook lots of things. In Mark Bittman's HOW TO COOK EVERYTHING FAST (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $35), as the title suggests, the New York Times food writer and columnist takes up the old idea that we would cook more if our culinary efforts didn't take so long. Irma Rombauer (of "Joy of Cooking" fame) published her version, "Streamlined Cooking," in 1939, and many of the add-a-can-of-soup recipes we're only just shaking off trace their roots back to her. Bittman sees no need to sacrifice quality for speed, and of course he's right. His book is clear, concise and designed for maximum efficiency. While learning to cook from recipes is inherently flawed, there seems to be no other way to learn to bake. It's unforgiving and scientific - and what it yields is, for most of us, just as surprising as a chemistry experiment. Which is not to say that all baking is complicated. Dorie Greenspan, in BAKING CHEZ MOI (Rux Martin/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $40), presents a collection of recipes that, as she explains, "have nothing to do with fancy techniques and even fancier frills. .. . They're plain and homey." And her apple pielettes are precisely that. Greenspan's instructions are both approachable and adaptable: "If you have little pie pans, you can use them for this recipe (you might get fewer than a dozen), but my pan of choice here is a muffin tin." Those looking for a dessert that's almost impossible to flub will want to add her pistachio and berry gratins to their repertoire. Keep going through the olive-oil-and-wine cookies and the cakes (simple and fancy), learn to make your lemon madeleines rise into the little bump Greenspan terms "the holy grail of madeleine bakers," and you'll have taken a tremendous step forward. Perhaps you want to cook lots of things, but only from one place? Margarita Carrillo Arronte adds to Phaidon's list of comprehensive national cookbooks ("The Silver Spoon" being the indispensable Italian one), with MEXICO (Phaidon, $49.95). Just over 700 pages long, jammed full of recipes, each accredited to its particular region, it's a work of staggering breadth, but it's also a pleasure to read, with recipes ranging far from enchiladas suizas. Maybe too far: Pachuquilla-style ant eggs calls for six cups of fresh ant eggs. I'm still hoping that "ant egg" is a metaphor for something. Mark and Talia Kurlansky's INTERNATIONAL NIGHT (Bloomsbury, $29) began as a family game, reminiscent of something Wes Anderson's Tenenbaums would recall when thinking about their halcyon days, before all the trouble started. Once a week, Kurlansky and his daughter, Talia, would spin a globe and wherever her finger landed became Friday night's dinner. Talia would introduce each meal with various hints, and her mom was tasked with guessing the country. The Kurlanskys appear to be a family of overachievers, a suspicion only heightened when you hit passages like this: "I already knew a few Moroccan dishes, especially since I had studied cooking in neighboring Tunisia. But when I learned that for the first time in history there was a cooking school in Morocco, I decided that Talia and I had to go there." The Kurlanskys' recipes vary in difficulty, and every night is accompanied by a Kurlanskyopedia entry, if you will, about the place. I don't think I'll ever make the soup called oyster zousui, but I liked reading about the Japanese distrust of that raw mollusk, and it was nice to find, between the same covers, good recipes for Afghan chick-pea meatballs, Sauerbraten and Mongolian hot pot. Overachieving at home can come in a few flavors. The dishes in Marcus Samuelsson's MARCUS OFF DUTY (Rux Martin/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $35) range from kid-friendly fish sticks to suckling pig, and while at first the recipes seem somewhat chef-ed up (six tablespoons of white miso in the egg wash for the fish sticks?) the techniques aren't anything that would stretch the occupant of a home kitchen, and they're more straightforward than the ingredient list might imply. This playful, funky book, written with Roy Finamore, is full of photos of smiling people and insightful sticky-note-esque asides. Far from the noisy, rambunctious family life touted in "Marcus Off Duty" is the staid still life with flower petals and eggs that makes up SUNDAY SUPPERS (Clarkson Potter, $32.50), derived from Karen Mordechai's Brooklyn-based food blog. Strange missteps abound - if you want beans in your chili, that's O.K. with me, just don't say it's "Tex- as style." In a section called "Camping," Mordechai tells us that "we built a fire near our friend's cabin in Oregon. . . . close enough to a kitchen to walk a few items over" - which explains the presence of cast-iron skillets and pictures of people in nice wool overcoats. But I did come away from the book with a recipe for tea-and-ginger-cured sea bass to layer on homemade bagels. And the desire to put confetti inside clear balloons and float them around my next party. The book also makes me want to have a party. Another food blogger with very good clothes, perfect light and enviable settings has made the move to hardcovers: Malin Elmlid has traveled the world bartering bread, and what she found is displayed in the photographs and recipes in THE BREAD EXCHANGE (Chronicle, $35). If you bake bread at all seriously, it's difficult to adapt entirely to another person's technique, but I wouldn't be surprised to find Elmlid's readers popping a teaspoon of edible charcoal powder into their dough - because the black loaves she creates are stunning. Elmlid also records the dinners she eats along the way, and gives us fetching meanders through Warsaw (buttermilk soup with horseradish mashed potatoes), Stockholm (crayfish), Bavaria (elderberry compote) and California (vegan banana bread). The gorgeous photographs in APPLES OF UNCOMMON CHARACTER (Bloomsbury, $35), by Rowan Jacobsen, have no beautiful people and no intriguing locales. They have only one thing: apples. Every variety is accompanied by notes on its origin, appearance, flavor, texture, season, use and region. Lest this sound underwhelming, consider Jacobsen's description of the Orleans Reinette, with flavors of "rum punch, heavy on the lime and nutmeg." And that's only the beginning: "Its coarse white flesh is hard and crunchy, just juicy enough to get the job done. The skin, quite chewy and persistent, sticks around interminably. Peel it." All this, plus recipes! (My favorites are grilled apples with smoked trout, fennel and lemon zest; and the duck and apple risotto with bacon, sage and forest mushrooms.) Apples are perhaps the world's friendliest food - a far cry from the next installment in Jennifer McLagan's project to write books about things that scare people. Now the author of "Bones," "Fat" and "Odd Bits" has taken on what she calls the "world's most dangerous flavor," BITTER (Ten Speed, $29.99). It's the one that separates the children from the adults, more than metaphorically: Infants, whose taste buds are all there and functioning, find bitter overwhelming. And since the flavor is a built-in warning that what we're eating might be poisonous, babies will spit out bitter foods. Learning to appreciate bitter comes with sophistication (and deadened taste buds - which, if you think about it, calls into question the implied brag of "acquired tastes"). McLagan's book strikes the perfect balance between essayistic exploration, lush photography and recipes. Come spring, I'll be frying her dandelion potato rösti in duck fat, and you can be sure I'll never again omit a sachet of crushed coriander seeds when I steam mussels in beer. One of the most influential bars in America has come out with a book of cocktails. David Kaplan, Nick Fauchald and Alex Day's DEATH & CO. (Ten Speed, $40), from the bar of the same name, is just as brilliant as the place itself. Sections on "Ice" and "The Death & Co. lexicon" (the family meal is "a staff-wide shot taken nightly around 11:30 p.m. . . . Also known as 'time to feed the kids'") will appeal to cocktail aficionados. The recipes are well organized and will appeal to everyone. Not to be skipped is the section on evaluating cocktails: Making daiquiris Nos. 1,2 and 3 (too sweet, too tart, just right) is an education in the difference a quarter of an ounce can make. If you're such a serious drinks person that you bought the Death & Co. book the day it came out, get back down to the store and pick up Dave Arnold's liquid intelligence (Norton, $35). This is cocktail science. Every drink comes with a breakdown; the strawberry bandito, for instance, is a "4 3/5-ounce (140 ml.) drink at 17.1 percent alcohol by volume, 9.0 grams/100 ml. sugar, 0.96 percent acid." Fantastic experiments with red-hot pokers and nitrogen abound, and if you've ever wanted your grapefruit juice to be clear, this is the book for you. I'm reasonably sure that when the mastermind behind the Booker & Dax cocktail bar writes "Why clarify? Why breathe?" he's poking a little fun at himself, but I wouldn't fay any money on it. Of course, every season comes with a bevy of new art books attached to chefs. They are, without exception, beautiful, and the food is exceptional too - and yet they still blur together. Another restaurant, another chef, some more food polished to the nth degree. But some of them do stand out. The photos of record albums, paintings and even fish in Massimo Bottura's never TRUST A SKINNY ITALIAN CHEF (Phaidon, $59.95) demonstrate that food has indeed morphed into an element of high culture. The recipes are preceded by essays, always with a wink ("Guineau Fowl, Not Roasted"). Only the bravest will stand at the cutting board with this book, but I might have the courage to make the striking dish of black katsuboushi broth and cod cooked on charcoal until the fish's skin is also black. Ed Anderson's pictures in Charles Phan and Janny Hu's THE SLANTED DOOR (Ten Speed, $40) are so good they make you hungry. Luckily, the recipes from Phan's much loved San Francisco restaurant are right next to them. The crispy rice cakes gave me a new reason to dust off the ebelskiver pan (they were eaten as fast as they could be made), and I'm glad to have the recipe for the filibuster cocktail. Phan's dishes are remarkably translatable to home cooking. Of roasted lobster with butter-herb dressing, he notes: "Lobster is actually quite easy to prepare, and if you have all the ingredients sliced and diced ahead of time, it needs just 15 to 20 minutes in the oven before you serve it to guests. I'm pretty sure they'll be wowed." Fans of Gabrielle Hamilton seem to have waited as long for PRUNE (Random House, $45) as they do for a seat at brunch. The book is a journey inside the restaurant, constructed as if it were the notebook a new hire would have to master. But those kitchen binders tend to be full of jargon and short on instruction, so at times the construct feels forced. (What good are directions like "Save wishbones for birthdays"?) The style can feel a little relentless, what with directions like "Shower with parsley, freshly chopped, at pass." (The pass in my house is the table, after all.) But what Hamilton has done, and done well, is invite us in. And if you want to learn the kitchen logic of Prune, it's here. Do we need a recipe for egg on a roll, N.Y.C. deli style? Actually, much of the country does, and Hamilton's admonition not to "gourmet-up this item with homemade rolls or rolls from Whole Foods" is spot on. Sometimes, though, the instructions feel out of place. I'm very happy to have the recipe for mackerel escabeche, sliced sweet capicola, buttered rye crackers and celery leaves, but I don't need the final instruction to "reuse marinade, but pay attention to viability and date. ... Do not send this down the drain. It clogs the grease trap. Discard into the dirty fat drum in the garbage area, please." From London, Daniel Doherty has sent us DUCK AND WAFFLE (Mitchell Beazley, $34.99), full of bold recipes from this 24-hour restaurant. The book moves through the whole day, starting with breakfast (hangover pizza: "This is so wrong, my wife would kill me. But anyway, the cure begins____" ) and ending with late-night snacks (the tricky but delicious bacon jam steamed buns). The house breads, which can be cooked like naan on a grill pan, are excellent. There's a rough and tumble charm throughout, coupled with flashes of brilliance: You can bet I've been soaking an oyster shell in Noilly Prat to make "sea spray" vermouth as invented by Richard Woods. Just as you can bet that I'll return to the all-purpose pickling liquid in George Mendes and Genevieve Ko's MY PORTUGAL (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, $35). Mendes's crispy pigs' ears with ramps and cumin yogurt were just as good with scallions, and every time I want to taste Portugal, I'll make his pork belly with clams and pickles. Whenever I can't think of anything to do with a vegetable, I'll return just as quickly to Yotam Ottolenghi's PLENTY MORE (Ten Speed, $35), for his wide-ranging selections and for simple, clever techniques like smoking beets in a tent of aluminum foil in a wok. The blue ribbon chef cookbook of the year, without a doubt, is Sean Brock's HERITAGE (Artisan, $40). Just when we thought Southern food had been done until it was as limp as the green beans at the crummiest soul food restaurant, Brock has pushed and elevated the cuisine. Even the simplest cornbread is brought to new heights. Sometimes a cookbook changes the way you think about food you thought you understood, and this is one of those books. Grits, around here, will be pre-soaked from now on. I'll make roux with cornmeal and bacon fat for Brock's tomato gravy as often as I can, and the same goes for his ramp- and crab-stuffed hush puppies. It takes months to make his fermented hot sauce, but I have faith that it'll be worth the wait. ON THE WEB Still in need of inspiration? Consult our annotated list of 20 cookbooks at nytimes.com/books. MAX WATMAN'S most recent book is "Harvest: Field Notes From a Far-Flung Pursuit of Real Food."
Library Journal Review
Starred Review. Australian native McLagan (Bones; Fat; Odd Bits) laments the disappearance of bitter tastes from mainstream diets and sets to reintroduce them to readers. In 100 recipes that incorporate chicories (frisee), beverages (coffee), brassicas (rutabaga), and other foods (almonds, cardoons), the author sheds light on how bitter tastes and smells affect the brain and palate. Additionally, in essays and headnotes surrounding dishes such as rapini with penne, horseradish and bone marrow toasts, and (wait for it) turnip ice cream, she reveals historical and scientific facts that will expand readers' knowledge of everything from ancient Egyptian medicine to Scandinavian Christmas traditions to the botany of fenugreek. The book itself is gorgeous and would look especially handsome alongside Domenica Marchetti's The Glorious Vegetables of Italy. VERDICT McLagan's comprehensive treatment of a sometimes unpopular topic offers an effective blend of everyday and adventuresome recipes. In the process, it makes bitterness seem dark, exotic, and even a little sexy. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Introduction Now, how it is we see some food for some, Others for others . . . I will unfold, or wheretofore what to some Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others Can seem delectable to eat? -- Lucretius his book began with a conversation about grapefruit, and how in the past they were bitter. My friend Laura, also a cookbook author, and I were lamenting the changes wrought to this wonderful fruit by marketing boards and the North American sweet tooth. When was the last time you tasted a proper bitter grapefruit with white flesh? For me, it has been years. The grapefruit of my childhood have been replaced with pink, sweet ones. Yes, today's grapefruit still has some acidity, but it has lost its bitterness and as a result is a fruit much less interesting to eat. I grew up with bitter grapefruit. My mother conscientiously made me a three-course breakfast every morning before sending me off to school. This probably explains why today I avoid breakfast, drinking only a café au lait in the morning. However, I fondly remember the grapefruit halves she served, prepared with a grapefruit knife. This specialized knife, serrated on both sides, is gently curved, allowing you to separate the grapefruit flesh from its pith and skin. Once done, you cut between the membranes, making the segments easily accessible to a small spoon. The natural bitterness of the grapefruit's flesh was tempered with a light sprinkling of sugar and the ready-to-eat fruit was presented in a bowl. Later, when I began cooking, grilled grapefruit was a popular starter in hotel restaurants; it was prepared as my mother had done it, but with all the pips removed and a shot or two of sherry added. Topped with a mixture of brown sugar and a little butter, the fruit was slipped under the broiler until the sugar caramelized. The result was the perfect balance of bitter and sweet to stimulate the appetite. My experience with grapefruit gave me a positive attitude to bitter, and it became an important part of my flavor palate. As I explored the world of bitter food, citrus zests, turnips, rapini (broccoli raab), chicories (endives), and cardoons became some of my favorite tastes, and I found myself craving them. They were for me, as Lucretius said, "delectable to eat," though other people found them "foul" and were unwilling to try them. A reluctance to eat bitter foods is understandable, as we all have an innate aversion to bitter tastes. Our tongues are covered in taste buds that are very adept in detecting even the smallest traces of bitterness. This is a natural defense system to protect us: many poisons are bitter, so our response when tasting something very bitter is to grimace and often to spit it out. This reaction is strongest in babies, as small amounts of toxins can kill them. As we age, we lose taste buds, and we also learn that not all bitter foods will kill us. In fact, we realize that many bitter foods, like coffee, bitter alcohols, and chocolate, stimulate our nervous system in ways we enjoy, so we actively seek them out. Over time we have also discovered that many bitter foods contain compounds that can protect us against illness, and positively influence our health. So does it matter if we avoid bitter? Absolutely yes! Bitterness is a double-edged sword: it signals toxic and dangerous, but it can also be pleasurable and beneficial. In the kitchen, eschewing bitter is like cooking without salt, or eating without looking. Without bitterness we lose a way to balance sweetness, and by rejecting it we limit our range of flavors. Food without bitterness lacks depth and complexity. Looking around, I can see that interest in bitter is on the rise. It's returning to the drink world, with a growing interest in cocktails containing bitters; a good Manhattan is impossible without them, and bitter alcohols, like European aperitifs and Italian amaros, are becoming popular. Bitterness is slowly making its way into the North American culinary consciousness, too. The last decade or so has seen a huge increase in the popularity of bitter lettuces, beginning with mesclun mix; now bitter greens like arugula, dandelion, radicchio, and frisée are common in restaurants. Alongside these lettuces, vegetables like brussels sprouts, turnips, and white asparagus, all of which have a bitter edge, are appearing frequently on menus. Chefs are highlighting the bitter components of nuts and fruits like walnuts and citrus, and bitterness is an important part of the flavor profile of quality olive oils. The makers of craft beer exploit the bitterness of hops, while artisanal chocolate makers create bitter chocolate bars with higher and higher cacao content. Surely the time is right, I decided, to champion the use of bitter in the kitchen. First I would have to define "bitter." I thought that would be easy until I actually tried to do it. When I discussed the taste of bitter with others, I realized that what I think of as bitter is not necessarily bitter for other people. Some even argued that grapefruit, which were the spark for this book, aren't even bitter: they're simply sour. Perhaps these people had never eaten a white grapefruit? Or was it a tougher problem than that? Was it possible to pin down the taste of bitter? We can probably all agree that Fernet-Branca, rapini, citrus zests, and beer are bitter, but I became more aware of the diversity of what we think of as bitter when numerous friends, all working in the food world, sent me suggestions for foods to include in the book. While I agreed with most of their ideas, some surprised and even shocked me. Among them were Camembert, celery, cucumber, Campari, Belgian Chimay cheese, eggplant, lemons, pickled onions, rhubarb, Seville orange marmalade, sorrel, coffee, and white Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine. Aren't rhubarb and sorrel simply sour? Lemon is both sour--its juice--and bitter--its peel. Celery, cucumber, Seville orange marmalade, Campari, and white Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine all have bitter notes, but eggplant is rarely bitter today. The bitterness of Chimay cheese comes from its beer-washed rind, and I've discovered that cheeses made with cardoons have a touch of bitterness, but Camembert? Not in my experience. Perhaps my friend had a cheese that was a little sour and confused that with bitterness? How our food is prepared also influences our perception of bitterness. Coffee gets only a small amount of its bitterness from the caffeine; most of it depends on how the beans are roasted and the method used for brewing it. Bitterness covers a wide span from aggressive to subtle; realizing that it is much more nuanced and difficult to pin down than the other tastes, I turned to science. Specifically, I contacted Professor Russell Keast from Deakin University. Professor Keast works a stone's throw away from where I went to school in Melbourne, Australia. Not only is he a professor of food and sensory science, a member of the New Zealand Guild of Food Writers, but he was also a chef--so he's a man who can understand bitter from my perspective. He observed, "[Bitter] conveys a very simple hedonic message--if excessive, don't consume." That message, according to Keast, probably has something to do with why many of my foodie friends confused sour and bitter: this mix-up is common because both tastes can trigger a negative reaction in high doses. He also shone a light on the relative elusiveness and complexity of bitter: while only acids signal "sour," by contrast thousands of different compounds in foods elicit a "bitter" response. And taste is only one of our senses that indicate bitterness. Smell, temperature, color, texture, and how the food feels in our mouth all relay a sense of bitterness to our brain. The pungency of arugula and horseradish can evoke a taste of bitter, as can the astringency that you find in celery, or the tannins in tea and cooked apricots. These sensations are delivered not through our taste buds, but via our somatosensory system, which includes touch, temperature, and texture. Beyond immediate sensory input are a whole range of cultural, environmental, experiential, and genetic factors that play a role in our perception of bitterness. The food's visual impact is very important, as is anything we have heard or read about it. These factors set up expectations about a food, so that we often dislike something even without tasting it because of how it looks, or how we think it will taste. What I find mildly bitter can be extremely bitter for others, just as the rutabaga that tastes bitter to me tastes sweet to many of my friends. So when it comes to bitter, our understanding of it--even our experience of it--differs more widely than that of any of the other basic tastes. Bitter is not simply a reaction on our tongue--a taste in the strict sense--but also includes many different signals that register as bitterness in our brain. I was discovering that bitter was even more intriguing and perplexing than I had originally thought. To decipher bitter I would have to unravel the science of how our brain determines flavor. The research in this area is developing rapidly, and it encompasses everything from anatomy and genetics to culture. The culinary history of why we keep bringing this taste into our kitchens despite our natural dislike of it gives another insight into bitter's persistent allure. As cooks, if we understand the role of bitter in the flavor spectrum, we can exploit and harness it in the kitchen. Cooking is about balancing tastes, and bitter often plays a vital role in a dish's harmony; it is crucial to the composition of a meal or menu. Without a touch of bitterness, your cooking will be lacking a dimension. Furthermore, bitter is both an appetite stimulant and a digestive--that is, it has the power to make you hungry as well as helping you digest your meal. Here you'll find a mixture of recipes, culinary and physiological science, literary tidbits, and history. Like me, you'll probably be surprised by what you'll read here; it may make you rethink how you cook, serve, and savor a meal. The complexity of bitter--and the individual variation we bring to experiencing it (see pages 24 and 35)--makes any exploration of the subject subjective. Mine, documented in this book and still unfolding (see page 247), reveals the prejudices of my palate and experience. I haven't included everything we eat that tastes bitter, and some of what I find bitter (pungent, harsh, tannic, astringent) you may not. My goal is to open up the possibilities in how you see bitter, so that while you may not become a lover of Fernet-Branca, you might cultivate a craving for a salad of bitter greens--to the benefit of your health and the delight of your palate. It's worth trying to imagine bitter through the lens of the Japanese word shibui , which describes a tangy bitterness. According to Kinfolk Magazine, "When people are described as shibui, the image is of a silver-haired man in a tailored suit, with a hint of a bad-boy aura about him." So bitter is a cultured, intriguing, and sophisticated taste, with a dangerous side. Who could be more fun to cook or to dine with? --------------------------------------------------- Belgian Endive Bathed in Butter Often, recipes for endive begin by boiling them, but as British chef and food writer Simon Hopkinson points out, "When cooking endive it is absolutely essential that you do not use water. The endive itself is pretty well all H2O." Cooking Belgian endive in water leaves you with a tasteless, waterlogged vegetable; it's probably why you think you don't like cooked endive. Here I've adapted Hopkinson's recipe, slowly caramelizing them in butter so they become meltingly soft. The butter enriches them and mellows their bitterness. You need a pan just big enough to hold the endives snugly, as they'll shrink as they cook. Serve them with a grilled veal or pork chop. Or try them in Belgian Endive Flemish Style (opposite). Serves 4 8 Belgian endives, about 1¾ pounds / 800 g 7 tablespoons / 31⁄2 ounces / 100 g unsalted butter, diced Sea salt and freshly ground pepper 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice Preheat the oven to 300°F / 150°C. Wipe the endives with a damp cloth and trim their bases, if necessary. In an ovenproof frying pan with a lid, just large enough to hold the endives in a single layer, melt the butter over low heat. When the butter is melted, increase the heat to medium and cook the butter, shaking the pan from time to time, until the milk solids begin to brown and you can smell a nutty aroma. Add the endives and lower the heat. Turn them to coat with the butter and season with salt and pepper. Cook the endives until they are lightly colored, then pour in the lemon juice. Cover the pan and place in the oven for 1 hour. Remove the pan and turn the endives carefully, cover, and return to the oven. Cook for another 45 minutes to 1 hour, until the endives are limp and very, very soft. Excerpted from Bitter: A Taste of the World's Most Dangerous Flavor, with Recipes by Jennifer McLagan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.