April 2004

Hot Science
The Kitchen Samurai

Like all writers, I sometimes lack inspiration. This past week, being the week before I start a new job and my last week of freedom, has been particularly inspirationless. So, originally, I figured I'd blow off my responsibilities to Evil Robots and its German Industrialist backers and heave a hearty high-ho, fuckit! to this month's article. Then, last night, Godzilla came to my door, pushed me down in a chair and shouted, "IT WILL HAVE ME AN ARTICLE BY 5 TOMORROW, OR IT WILL GET THE HOSE." He then put on what looked like an old dress of his mother's and swished out the door, blaring "The Girl from Ipanema" on his iPod. So, I bring you the following article, even though it's all perty out and I'd rather have molten glass poured into my navel than write a fucking article today. Stupid Godzilla. Stupid job. Stupid president.

Pressed for time as I am, I figured this month's column would be about a subject dear to my heart: chiles. Chiles are one of humankind's oldest domesticated fruits; those who'd know such things have claimed they might have been cultivated as early as 6,000 B.C. Originating in the mountains of South America (likely in what is now Peru), they probably first spread through the efforts of birds, then with the help of man, through South and Central America. The earliest European explorers and traders saw to it that the fruits became well know and well-loved throughout the Far East and Africa, and the slave trade is thought to have brought them, along with the tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables, the long way 'round to the East Coast of the United States.

The same Europeans who spread the chile's fame and fortune are also responsible for the confusion regarding its heritage: faced with spice-heat, a relatively unfamiliar sensation at the time, they initially believed they'd found a relative of the peppercorn, that berry being one of the few sources of spice-heat know to them (see also: "Why Columbus was Not a Botanist" by Ludwig Huggenkiss, well-known author of "Does This LOOK like India to You, Pal?"). Though the confusion remains to this day, rest assured that chiles are not peppers. They are, in fact, capsicums, more closely related to bell peppers than the black grains in the shaker on your table.

Chiles, despite being well loved by many, are still sort of a bastard cousin in the culinary world. French cuisine, the great cataloguer and standard-bearer of fine dining, has disregarded them until only recently. Respected authors and food historians belittle them by claiming the original use of chiles was to cover the taste of the rotting meat that must have been so common in warm climates before the days of refrigeration. I've even heard it said that chiles were consumed not for pleasure but as a test of masculinity: the guy who could eat a lot of chiles was declared a real badass and got to wear an extra feather in his cap or something. Cuisine by peer pressure I think that's called. All this, to me, sounds like elitism and nonsense, but it does mean that chiles are not as well studied as other foodstuffs. This can create confusion.

Chiles come in a variety of shapes, sizes, flavors, and colors, and their heat can vary widely even among members of the same family; the Serrano you ate today might have left you yawning even though the one you consumed yesterday burned a hole in your plate and made you breath fire on your cat. If the sheer number of types of chiles alarms and confuses you, don't worry, you're not alone. Besides the hundreds or thousands of known varieties, there are still quite a number of chiles we don't know much about and even of the chiles known to and named by science, not all of these have been studied as much as one might like, so many inanities and ignorances persist.

The Habanero, for instance, is a cultivar of the Chinense species of chile, so named because a European botanist decided a century or three ago that the Chinense originated in China; though it appears that botanist was quite wrong, no one has bothered to correct the name to this day. Continuing with the Habanero, have you ever noticed how many different chiles are labeled Habanero? There are big brown Habaneros, slender red Habaneros, squat orange Habaneros, yellow Habaneros, purple Habaneros... the list goes on. The trouble is that though all these chiles are subtly different in size, shape, heat, and color, no one's really taken the time to create a name and a genealogy for these different chiles, so they're all lumped under the name "Habanero." Of the Chinense cultivars that are named and distinguished from the good ol' Habanero (the Fatalii, the Scotch Bonnet, the Red Dragon) no one's really sure whether these other cultivars really are different, or if they're the same chile from a different region given a regional name. Even the Habanero itself, a native of the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico has a name meaning of Havana, though the chile really isn't known inside Cuba at all.

All this, of course, means that chiles are a delight to study, and new finds at the local grocery store are a likely source of excitement. If you are faced with an unfamiliar chile, be careful. Smell the thing, or take a tiny taste before you use it, otherwise you may get more than you bargained for (or less). A simple (though fallible, so, again, be careful) rule to bear in mind is that the smaller chiles are usually hotter than the larger ones, and that most chiles get hotter near the stem. Additionally, the heat of a chile is mostly produced by the white pith around the seeds inside the chile; by association, the seeds are also very hot and can be bitter if cooked -- bear this in mind when cooking with whole chiles. If you want a chiles flavor but fear its full heat, cut the chile into quarters lengthwise, then scrape out the seeds and the pith, then go wash your hands. DO NOT touch your eyes, nose, or lips or go to the bathroom without first washing your hands WELL. If you find cutting up chiles makes your hands burn, wear latex gloves when handling the things; it's simply not worth the suffering just to look macho.

That said, though, chiles don't have to be hot. They can be refreshing and cooling as well. The Poblano, for instance, is one of the milder and more flavorful chiles out there, and it makes a dandy soup that's great in summer months. To make it, try this:

Buy a half dozen largish Poblano chiles, four tomatillos, a lime, a white onion, and some sour cream. Dice the Poblanos and a quarter of the onion very fine and simmer them together in water or chicken stock until tender. Set the mixture aside to cool. Remove the husks from the tomatillos, and cook them in a dry, heavy pan (cast iron's great if you have it) until their skin is blackened and they're soft. (If you'd like, roast a small clove of garlic in its skin alongside the tomatillos.) Add the water or stock, the Poblanos, the onion, and the tomatillos to a blender (along with the now-peeled garlic, if you're using it), and puree the mixture well. Season to taste with lime juice, salt, and pepper. You can now take three very different roads: you can serve the soup as-is, either at room temperature or warm, garnished with sour cream; you can serve the soup as-is, after chilling it; or, if you're aiming for a fancy presentation, you can run the soup through a coarse strainer to remove the skin, stray tomatillo seeds, etc., and mix in a touch of sour cream to thicken it and smooth it out. This last option is best served chilled with crumbled or grated cheese and sprinkled with ground chipotle powder.