Artichokes Mandeville

Creamy crabmeat and artichoke salad served in an artichoke pirogue beached upon a light tossed salad, as cool and refreshing as the champagne on ice beside it.

When you feel like getting carried away, a pirogue is the perfect means of transportation.

Here’s what you’ll need:

3 artichokes, of the pointy variety

3 lemons

1/2 lb lump crabmeat

1 stalk of celery, minced

1 scallion, finely sliced, with a lot of green

1/2 C mayonnaise

1/4 C sour cream

1 t minced tarragon

hot sauce

black pepper

peppercorns

bay leaves

olive oil

The Pirogues

Put a stock pot filled with enough water to cover the artichokes over high heat. Stir into the water about a 1/4 cup of good olive oil; a handful of peppercorns; a couple of garlic cloves sliced in half; the juice and carcasses of two lemons; and a bay leaf.

Of the three artichokes, take the two most boat like, and trim them: with a pair of scissors, starting at the bottom, clip the thorny tip of each leaf until you work you way up to the point. Do not touch the leaves that comprise the point of the artichoke. It is the bow of your boat, and should be left intact. These two artichokes will be cooked, then sliced in half - forming four pirogues. But that’s later.

The third artichoke has a different purpose, so don’t worry about trimming it.

When the water is boiling, throw in all three artichokes, cover, and, on low-medium heat, cook 30 minutes. When they are done, remove, drain and allow to cool.

With a sharp knife, remove the stems, and set aside.

Take the untrimmed artichoke, and slice off the point - about 2-3 inches down from the tip. Now remove all the leaves. Since it is cooked, you can do much of this with your fingers. Nestled in the center of things, you will see the choke, prickly and disagreeable. With a paring knife, or a grapefruit spoon, or both, carefully scoop out the choke, leaving something like a basin. Whittle away the rough hide around it, and you will have something resembling a hockey puck with a dip in the top. Something you would put under a table leg to protect the floor.

In the canned goods world, this is what is called an “artichoke bottom.” But it is really the artichoke heart - that is, the heart of the honest-to-God-artichoke. I have to be careful here, because in the canned goods world, what is called an “artichoke heart” is not that at all. It is basically a “baby artichoke,” but do not suppose that to be an infant artichoke. Oh, no, it is a  fully matured artichoke whose growth was stunted because denied the sun by the h-t-G artichoke above it on the stalk. Having no choke, it is wholly edible, and should therefore be forgiven for all the confusion it causes. Whew.

There is a parable in all that, somewhere. One day we will find it in a country song.

Now the two remaining artichokes are ready to become pirogues. With a large, sharp knife carefully slice them in half lengthwise. With a smaller sharp knife, trace a line - giving yourself an outside margin of at least 1/8 inch - around the choke, then cut along that line more and more deeply until you can remove the choke with your fingers. Remove the inner leaves, which are inedible - if you are unsure, take a bite and decide for yourself. But you want enough room for about a half cup of crab salad. More detail about all this, along with some photographs, can be found at Artichoke Pirogues With Crawfish Cardinale 

Now peel the stems, cutting away all but the tender (comparatively, anyway) flesh. Throw them in with the heart and dice it all up, quarter inch. This will assist in turning what would otherwise be  Crabmeat Mandeville into Artichoke Mandeville.

The Crabmeat Salad

In a mixing bowl, blend the celery, green onion, mayonnaise, sour cream, tarragon, a few dashes of your favorite hot sauce, and black pepper to taste. Cut the remaining lemon in half lengthwise. Set one half aside and zest the other. Squeeze the juice of the zested lemon into the crab mixture, and stir in the zest. Fold in the crabmeat, not in any heavy handed way, along with the diced artichoke meat.

Thinly slice the remaining half lemon into so many half moons. Pick the nicest four for garnish.

Now you have four pirogues. Fill them with the crabmeat salad, dividing it evenly. Lend a becoming blush with a sprinkle of cayenne or paprika. Garnish with the lemon slices.

Chill.

Serve atop a green salad, tossed with a light dressing, the simpler perhaps the better, the remaining lemon slices thrown in.

Artichoke Pirogues With Crawfish Cardinale

 

It happened when I was a kid lying awake one night listening to the radio. Maybe it was the first time I had ever done such a thing. The only station playing that late was out of New Orleans, with a program broadcasting live from a restaurant, of all things. It was just a DJ playing records, plugging the restaurant between selections from what we would later call the American Songbook. But it changed things for me, at least a little then; and more later. For that night marked the first time in my life I that I ever thought of cuisine as something apart from my mom’s menu. It was the first time I ever thought of myself even going to a restaurant.

We had restaurants in our county - from time to time. They never lasted long. Not even the one that sported that new fangled innovation the salad bar, though everybody would give it a try. One try, to be exact, and then it would go out of business.

But this restaurant was not in a little town in middle Georgia. It was in New Orleans, a place I knew just enough about to find intriguing. It was historic. There was the battle - the Johnny Horton song had educated me that much. Not to mention the movies. And there were actual culinary premonitions, sort of: Mom made a chicken and ham jambalaya.

Now I was listening to that suave radio guy describing the classic Creole dishes. Even that might not have been enough – But T. Pitarri’s also served Hippopotamus, Lion, Rhinocerus and Tiger (I’m not kidding) and that did the trick. I fashioned an image of the man I would grow up to be, and he was a man who had dined - at least once - at T. Pittari’s.

I managed that, years later - to dine at T. Petarri’s just once. But that is another story.

I have been to New Orleans many times since.

The older I got, the more cuisine meant to me. And the older I got, the more I learned how to cook it myself. So that is what this is driving at. It’s about cooking it.

New Orleans was sort of a beginning for me. So, since this first installment is by definition a beginning, let’s talk Pirogues.

There are pirogies. That’s different. Pirogue is the Cajun word for canoe. A little boat. In Louisiana Cuisine, a pirogue is a vegetable carved to resemble a canoe, then filled with something wonderful. It can be served hot and savory or cold and refreshing - it depends on what you want. And it is as flexible as your imagination.

The vegetable vehicle could be a squash - zucchini, mirliton, yellow squash, conceivably butternut squash; egg plant; or tomato (though admittedly not so canoe-ish); very easily an endive leaf; or - the most majestic of all, navigable in the most sluggish streams -- an artichoke.

Let’s start with this: a first course, a hot dish that would well precede something grand but simple, a roast of some sort, a rack of some kind, whole fish, a rabbit loin wrapped in prosciutto. Something with a very cool look.

So let’s do an artichoke.

A globe artichoke is not the best choice, with the too-rounded top a not-at-all-pointy bow for your little boat; though it’ll do in a pinch. But look for one of those artichoke varieties that are indeed boat like in shape.

You will trim them, boil them in scented water, and fill them with -- with Crawfish Cardinale.

There are many equally fine choices, but none better.

Cook The Artichokes

3 artichokes and a stockpot with enough water to cover them;

1/4 C good olive oil;

1 T black peppercorns;

2 bay leaves;

2 lemons, cut in half and juiced in the water;

1 t salt;

Do not cut off the tops of the artichokes. Most applications of fresh artichoke call for cutting off as much as an inch off the top, which is great if you are stuffing behind the leaves. (and if you are, the globe artichoke is your man.) But cutting off the top is not so good for a pirogue. You’ll lose a portion of the reservoir you hope to make. Not to mention the bow of your boat.

So don’t cut off the top.

 Do remove scraggly leaves, clip the prickly tips off all the other leaves - except those that comprise the very bow of the boat. When you look at it you’ll know what I mean.

Go ahead and cut off the stem (close to the bottom) - and save it.

Fill the pot with enough water to

cover the artichokes, put it over high heat. In that water there should be maybe a quarter cup of good olive oil, a handful of peppercorns, a couple of bay leaves, a few garlic cloves - don’t bother to peel but do cut them in half - a couple of lemons, juice and carcasses thrown into the pot, and maybe a teaspoon of salt. Bring this water to a boil first, then put in the chokes, along with the severed stems, cover, lower the heat, and cook for thirty minutes.

Then take the artichokes - and the stems (I often forget them) from the water and set aside to cool.

In the meantime…

Make the Crawfish Cardinale 

You’ll need:

5 T butter

1/3 C finely chopped onion, shallots, or green onion or a combination thereof;

1/3 C finely chopped red pepper;

1/3 C finely chopped celery;

2 T flour

1 C half and half

2 T tomato paste

1/2 t salt

1/4 t white pepper

1/4 t cayenne

1/8 t mace

1/8 t allspice

1/8 t ground cloves

1 bay leaf

3 T brandy

2 T dry white wine

1 clove minced garlic

1 C (this is about 1/2 pound) crawfish tails (well drained)

And two skillets.

In the first skillet place 2 T of butter, and on low heat, sauté the chopped onion, bell pepper and celery, till wilted - do not brown; turn off the heat.

By the by, you have just made the Creole “holy trinity,” or “Creole Mirepoix” (the original French Mirepoix is a combination of onion, celery and carrot.) It is the fundamental flavor base of Creole cuisine.

In the other skillet, melt the remaining 3 T of butter, add the flour, and, stirring constantly, cook until you’ve made a blond roux (at which my dear friend once cried - ‘made her do what?’)

ADD the sautéed vegetables to the roux, and still stirring, add the half and half, tomato paste, and the spices, blend well, cook a few minutes till it begins to thicken;

Now add the brandy, wine, and garlic, blend and cook a few more minutes;

ADD the crawfish - now it’s Crawfish Cardinale.

Take the artichoke stems, peel them down to the soft pale green flesh, and dice; stir that into the Cardinale;

Cook another five minutes - still on low heat - till desired consistency is achieved. It should be as thick as a pie filling. Or a dip. But not so thick dipping would be a drag.

Dipping is what you’ll be doing.

Make the Pirogues

Carefully cut each artichoke in half lengthwise.

Take an artichoke half, place it on the cutting board cut side up. In the center you’ll see the hairy choke, and above it the inner leaves - most of which are basically inedible. With a paring knife, trace around the margin of the choke, cutting into the smooth flesh around it. Do it again and again, a little deeper each time, until the choke is almost detached. You will surgically remove it. Take a spoon, gently dig it out, and with it some of the innermost leaves - and discard. That creates a cavity. Remove the palest inner leaves. You are enlarging the reservoir - fashioning a vegetable ramekin for the Crawfish Cardinale. Continue removing one inner leaf at a time until the reservoir suits you: smooth it out, scrape away any remaining fibers; you want enough room for about a half cup. 

Do the other five artichoke halves, and set aside.

Now they are pirogues.

Fill the Pirogues

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Arrange the pirogues in a baking dish or gratin dish - anything oven-proof that will contain them securely - and fill each pirogue with about half a cup of Cardinale.

Sprinkle with cayenne or paprika - there’s a reason it’s called Cardinale - it’s supposed to be reddish.

Place in the oven, and bake for 15-20 minutes, until the pirogues are browned slightly, and the sauce is bubbling.

When serving make sure your guests are clued in that the leaves are part of the game. Lead the way, demonstrating how useful an artichoke leaf can be, using each one as a spoon, gathering a bite of Cardinale, and as you pull it from your mouth, bite down on the leaf, scraping off with your teeth the tender flesh at the end.

(Our dog Jelly Bean is most adept at this; she bites down just hard enough to get the cardinale off the leaf as we pull it away, clamps down harder at the last second and gets every bit of the artichoke meat. She washes this down with a Californian Pinot Gris.)

Have a small plate handy to receive the used leaves.

When there are no leaves left, only the heart remains (what a phrase - I am humming Paul Simon’s The Boxer even now) - with a spoonful or two of Cardinale.

And that is the prize.

It is really a dish that finishes well.