The hottest meal I have ever eaten was in 1983, at an Indian restaurant in Glasgow. I was there visiting friends who were native Glaswegians, and after a day or so of having mostly pub food and one gunmetal gray pork chop cooked to the consistency of a charcoal briquette, I was taken to a mysterious establishment that was up a long flight of stairs. It was very late at night, we were all a tiny bit worse for wear, and when my friend’s husband ordered for me–“she’ll have the vindaloo”– I couldn’t fathom what on earth was going to show up.
I remember distinctly what it looked like, and it didn’t look good. Or like vindaloo, for that matter. Nevertheless, I tasted one forkful, and immediately had the sort of reaction that neophytes have when they innocently mistake a Habanero for a pickled tomato: I wept with incendiary bursts of flame that tore through my head. My throat burned, and I coughed and hacked like a tubercular coal miner. It wasn’t at all pleasant, and for a full week, I couldn’t taste a thing. I was a student at Cambridge at the time, so this was not necessarily unfortunate.
Fast forward twenty-six years, and there is not a dish that comes out of my kitchen that isn’t laced, often heavily, with chiles of some sort. I crave the warmth, the heat, the mouth-filling layers of flavor and roundness that heavy spice affords; it gives me what I call Happy Mouth.
Bland food feels like pablum to me now, devoid of passion and electricity and sensuality; even when I’m not feeling well, I’m instantly put right by a flash of fire. Barbara Sibley, co-owner of the extraordinary La Palapa put it more succinctly while cooking on Chopped, when man-tanned judge Geoffrey Zakarian claimed that he couldn’t figure out what to do with the searingly hot pepper garnish sitting on the plate that she had prepared, and then snidely commented on whether or not he was actually supposed to eat it. Sibley’s dead-accurate aim at the judges’ gushing interest in vertical plates of tasteless slop instead of exuberant wallops of flavor got them right between the eyes, like a good chile pepper does: Bite into the pepper, and “At least you know you’re alive,” she said to Zakarian, and she was right. The judges never knew what hit them, and Barbara was gone in a flash, the very obvious metaphysical winner ousted by the pepper-and-heat threatened.
But where does my love for spice and heat leave me during the often gastronomically bland Christmas season? Is it kosher to spice up the Christmas ham when your guests are (largely) over 90? Is it cool to massage the standing rib roast with a paste of crushed Ancho chiles, coffee, sea salt, and garlic? How about injecting the Christmas pudding with Habanero-infused brandy?
I don’t think so.
Bad things would happen, just the way they did when I attempted, one Thanksgiving, to pass off the roasted poblanos I’d added to the butternut squash soup as “just a hint of spice.”
Part of the problem here is that in our house, as in many, Christmas tends toward the very traditional, at least gastronomically-speaking; I studied in England for a time and am something of an Anglophile, and I’m sure that the influence of all of those kippers and roasts of beef and gooseberry fools and Yorkshire puddings took its toll on me, culinarily. Some day, Susan and I will do what Alice Waters used to do, according to her foreword in the wonderful Elizabeth David’s Christmas, edited by the amazing Jill Norman: I will make a traditional Mexican Christmas dinner one year, an Italian one the next, and so on, and I will add spice to my heart’s content. But for the time being, Christmas means ham or beef; possibly some Cumberland sauce; and Stilton. This year, the only heat will be in the pudding I’m making, and I hope that I don’t incinerate my eyebrows. Jews aren’t particularly known for their dexterity with flaming desserts.
This Christmas, and for Christmases in the near future, our cooking will be limited to the delicious but comparatively benign foods that some long for, and that I want to drench in layers of heat and spice so as to achieve Happy Mouth; instead, we’ll all look around and wish each other a happy holiday and best wishes for the New Year. And then I’ll start writing my Boxing Day menu:
Quinoa and cotija-stuffed roasted poblanos with crema and New Mexican red chile sauceClay pot chicken enojadoMaple and chipotle-rubbed roasted butternut squashMexican chocolate pot de cremeWith a serrano garnish.
Maple and Chipotle-Rubbed Roasted Butternut Squash
There is nothing simpler to make, or more delicious. Susan loves this dish so much that she claims she could eat it day after day, every day. I don’t know about that; but I do know that the combination of sweet maple syrup and smoky spice is unbeatable. Make sure to use grade B syrup here, which will give the dish a much rounder, fuller flavor.
Serves 2-4
1 medium whole butternut squash, sliced in half, seeds scooped out
1 teaspoon grapeseed oil (or other neutral oil)
2 tablespoons grade B maple syrup
1 teaspoon ground chipotle pepper
1. Place a large piece of foil in the oven, and preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Rub each squash half with the oil, then each squash half on the foil flesh side up, and roast until a knife can be inserted into it without any resistance, about 45 minutes.
2. Combine the maple syrup and chipotle in a small bowl, brush onto each squash half, and continue to roast until brown and bubbly, around 5 minutes.
Serve hot, or at room temperature.
