Michael Laiskonis

A Blank Canvas

When asked to define my culinary style, as I often am, I tend to say that I modernize, or build upon the classics. It's a sufficiently vague answer that satisfies both the purists and the avant garde. In practice, I can't say that I really think about it in such terms! First and foremost, my goal is simply to create something that is delicious and that makes others happy. But there is also a self-imposed desire among most chefs to constantly push forward, surprise, and create something new. And the best of them are continually learning, searching for new ideas, techniques, and ingredients. It makes sense that we would want to share them; it doesn't always have to be about "ego" or "showing off". I'll always remember something my friend Norman Van Aken said, that as chefs, our job is to merely build a bridge to the guest. In the context of the discussion, he was saying that we can't necessarily force people to try something new. Sometimes it takes a little coaxing, a gentle invitation to "our side".

I'm not always consciously aware of it, but I agree with that philosophy. I want to expose people to something new, yet also offer them something familiar. This "invitation" typically manifests itself as either a classic flavor combination or a familiar preparation, or sometimes a combination of the two. If I build a dessert from an established palette of flavors, I might present them in unexpected ways. And if using a recognizable technique or vehicle, I see an opportunity to use that as a foundation upon which I can build upon. A blank canvas, if you will.

One such foundation, or classic, is panna cotta. The Italian original (it literally translates to "cooked cream") is said to have been flavored with honey, fruits, and nuts, all abundant in a region where sugar was scarce and expensive. Curiously, early versions were also set with isinglass, a crude gelling agent extracted from the "gas bladder" of certain fish, which is still occasionally used in the fining of some beers and wines. Back to the present, I think panna cotta has only become widespread in this country within the past 15 years or so, thanks in part to pastry chefs like Nancy Silverton, founder of LA's La Brea Bakery, and Claudia Fleming, who influenced many while at Gramercy Tavern in NYC.

Here, a panna cotta made with thick Greek yogurt (I typically use the full fat Total brand) acts as a clean, ideal platform for grapefruit, avocado, basil seeds, and basil. This cream and yogurt base is set and frozen in a silicon Flexipan mold. And while the best versions of panna cotta are those served in a dish and requiring the minimum amount of gelatin, I sometimes concede to a more playful presentation, though taking care to retain a soft, melting texture. Unmolded and allowed to temper, or thaw, to nearly room temperature, each individual panna cotta is topped with grapefruit and basil seeds, common in the desserts of India and southeast Asia. Tasteless on their own, the basil seeds swell up and take on the flavor of their soaking liquid- grapefruit juice, in this case- to create a texture not unlike caviar.

Perhaps my favorite visual element comes courtesy of the grapefruit "film" or gelee, which finds grapefruit juice set with both gelatin and agar agar. This technique takes advantage of the agar agar's strength and the gelatin's flexibility and bounce. The result allows us create a clear paper-thin film resembling cellophane when draped over the panna cotta. The addition of avocado puree and vanilla infused olive oil add a rich, yet vibrant compliment; a clean grapefruit coulis, thickened without applying heat by a small amount of xanthan gum, maintains its freshness. A light foam of basil and citrus infused milk completes the whole.

This panna cotta appeared on Le Bernardin's dessert menu in December. The dish evolved from an earlier version conceived a few months ago: Judiaann Woo, of the French Culinary Institute, invited me to conduct a demonstration with TexaSweet to promote Texas grapefruit, where I featured this dessert along with four others.

Download panna_cotta_recipe.pdf

For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.

The "Slow" Time

Every year, restaurants go through a period of time known more or less as "the season". The months of October, November, and December typically find the industry at its busiest. Sure, the holidays account for much of it, but so too does the fact that the major guidebooks (Michelin, Zagat) are released during this time and really kick things off with, hopefully, a fair amount of buzz. A busy service on New Year's Eve marks the culmination of a solid three months of being "slammed".

And then there's the "slow" time. Now, at least in New York City, where the restaurant culture is so rich and concentrated, there never really is a slow time. This is especially true here at Le Bernardin. We stay consistently busy year-round; just when it seems the city suddenly empties of its residents around mid-August, they are replaced by gastro-tourists from around the world. Basically, we're busy all the time; during the "season", we're just really busy! Yet this time of year is a bit like a sigh, a brief reprieve from the storm of kitchen life. I think most of it comes from the fact that we are still so adrenaline-charged from the season, that when life and business return to some form of normalcy, it just feels "slow".

And there is a more general slowness to this time of year. As the winter chill drives people from the streets indoors, the warm comfort of slow cooking just feels right. With vibrant spring produce still several weeks away, it makes sense that this is how we're supposed to cook and eat at this time of year. No surprise then, that on a recent bitterly cold Sunday (my day off), I found myself at home tending to slowly braising short ribs, while also stirring a quietly bubbling pot of polenta.

Back in the kitchen, we're in a regenerative mode. The new year upon us, I'm looking ahead and beginning several new projects. The few fleeting hours between lunch and dinner services will find me working on our next consulting project, planning for a charity event I'm traveling to next month, and testing recipes I will demo for a live, national TV show in a few weeks. And although I introduced several changes to the menu at the height of December craziness, we continue to brainstorm new ideas whenever we have time.

With "slow" on my brain, I turn to the apple. Its durability makes it a perfect vehicle for long, slow cooking; the process transforms the flavor into a mellow, condensed complexity. Next, I consult my pocket notebook, at the ready any time inspiration strikes. At some point recently I had scribbled "smoked cinnamon". I think it was listed randomly between "sea water" and "gummy bears". Anyway, I have apples, smoked cinnamon... and I'm always trying to think of a good way to incorporate bacon into a dessert... OK, since I like to build a new dessert from three elements, I now have a starting point.

Digging into my archive of recipes and techniques, I rediscover an old favorite, apple confit. I've seen several versions of this idea, which finds thinly sliced apples layered in a dish, then slowly baked, and sometimes pressed. Sam Mason of Tailor in NYC once used an interesting "high tech" method to create the same concentrated flavor and texture, using gellan gum to set a puree of apples stewed in white wine. I'm going to stick with my tried and true method, because it will give me a chance to best incorporate my smoked cinnamon: I'll create a smoked cinnamon-caramel powder, to sprinkle between the layers of apple, subtly infusing it as it bakes.

The cinnamon was smoked by Simon, one of my assistants, after I floated the idea to the entire pastry staff a few weeks ago. He smoked the cinnamon- and a whole host of other potential dessert ingredients- in the old school method: the cinnamon and wood chips placed in a pan tightly wrapped in foil, then heated on a stovetop over low flame. I want to showcase this flavor, and create a textural contrast against the apple confit, too. I decide to take the same powder we used for the apple to create a parfait, or mousse, using a classic sabayon method: we gently cook the powder (in place of the sugar) with eggs over a double boiler until lightened and thickened, and then whip it until cool. It is further lightened with whipped cream and set with a small amount of gelatin before piping into long cylinder molds.

I promised that bacon would enter at some point. I spent some time last year playing with a twist on the classic peanut brittle: bacon brittle. I used pecans and rendered bacon, but also added piment d'espelette, a delicately hot red pepper from southern France, and smoked Welsh sea salt. The finished brittle is crushed and sprinkled over the parfait. And finally, all this spice and smoke is tempered by an apple cider caramel and a light crème fraiche sorbet.

Download apple_confit_recipe.pdf

For general notes on the recipes posted here, please read About the Recipes. And for hard to find ingredients or equipment, please refer to Resources.

The Egg

The Egg. A universal symbol of fertility and birth. It’s also a self contained, self sufficient source of energy and a protective incubator for its potential inhabitant. For us humans, it’s also a near perfect food. It can find its way into any meal of the day, and is comfortable both acting solo and as a supporting cast member, not to mention that it responds favorably to nearly every cooking method imagineable. With its amazing physical properties, it performs dozens of mechanical tasks in our day to day cooking, to such an extent that I think we tend to take it for granted. And I don’t think any other foodstuff- perhaps with the exception of bread, but we’ll save that for another post- is the subject of as many clichés, metaphors, or allegories.

This reflection on the humble egg seems like a fitting way to hatch this whole blogging project of mine. So, welcome to what will be an ongoing series of personal observations and investigations, a way to share, with amateur enthusiasts and other professionals alike, insights and recipes and a behind-the-scenes perspective of life in the kitchen.

In a way, the egg has been very important to my career…

Some 7 years ago, as the pastry chef at Tribute, a restaurant in my hometown of Deroit, a signature dish was born. Now, I don’t think any chef ever actually intends on creating such a dish, but nonetheless, this dessert follows me to this day, 4 years after moving to New York City and Le Bernardin. It is known simply as “The Egg”, and its inception and inspiration are still a little cloudy. Quite likely it was that other famous egg, the amuse bouche at Arpege in Paris, or perhaps I had seen some of Michel Richard's eggshell desserts, or the numerous eggs playfully presented by David Burke. In any case, I felt that nature’s perfect container was an alluring and under-exploited vehicle.

I do know that the real catalyst was finding the tool with which the tops of these eggs are removed. This stainless steel spring-loaded contraption is by far the most efficient at getting this most difficult task completed. Most first experiments never see the dining room, but I think I hit on this one with the first shot. Doing a custard of some sort was a no-brainer- all those emptied eggs had to go somewhere! With a chocolate custard, caramel logically followed: in warm liquid form, and as a foam (I think the egg topper and the foam canister were purchased on the same shopping trip!). Maple, that was definitely Alain Passard’s voice in my head, and salt, now quite common as an overt accent in desserts, was at the time still a novel idea.

One appeal of  “The Egg” is simply the element of surprise and its dramatic presentation, as it arrives at the table cradled in a porcelain egg cup, complete with a tiny silver spoon. As a pre-dessert, the portion size is rather small, but by design; I kind of like the idea of someone wanting just one more bite! What really makes this dessert special is the result, a synergy greater than the sum of its parts. The different textures and flavors find their ultimate harmony with the addition of flaky Maldon salt, the key ingredient of “The Egg”.

Today at Le Bernardin, “The Egg” often appears unexpectedly as a special treat for our guests, as there has never been any mention of it on any printed dessert menu. That said, we still produce anywhere from 50-100 on a daily basis. And yes, we still expect to break one or two out of each dozen!

The definitive recipe appears below. For the home cook, it does require a moderate investment of time and equipment, however, beyond the initial opening of the eggs, the individual components themselves are really quite simple, and can be prepared up to a day or two in advance of serving.

For general information about this and all future recipes, please refer to About The Recipes. Where applicable, I’ve also provided sources for hard to find ingredients or equipment in Resources

And for what it’s worth, you can watch a short clip of my recent demo of “The Egg” on iVillage.com.

Thanks for reading this far, and please check back for more installments!

Download egg_recipe.pdf