Salt News

A while back I promised some photos of Maldon’s new smoked entry into the salt sphere. Here they are, along with some flavor and usage notes.I am eating some of Freddy Guys‘ freshly dry-roasted hazelnuts and drinking a glass of

Amnesia Brewing’s excellent copacetic IPA, which they sell to-go in mason jars, and contemplating Maldon Smoked Sea

Salt. The Maldon Smoked sea salt (smoked primarily with oak, but with a muddling of various other hardwoods in reportedly top secret proportion) is a little sharp, even

astringent in the nose, making it not one of my favorite salts to smell on its own. But that is perhaps irrelevant,

as I don’t need to smell every salt au natural before eating it, and when eating it, interesting things happen.

The delicate crunch of Maldon’s flaky crystals provides a very pleasant sensation in the mouth. Maldon has

preserved all the flaky delicacy of its regular flake seasalt in its hardwood smoked

seasalt. (Strangely, you comem across GIANT mutant flakes now and again (sometimes larger than a quarter), and I don’t recall seeing them so large so often in the non smoked sea salt.)

Then breath through your mouth while you chew. This practice, of course, may take some discretion on your part, as nobody wants to see too much heavy in-breathing and chewing at the table. If you walk amongst the

rough and ready, I definitely encourage you to just breath heavily, flinging Maldon smoked salt, chomping hazelnuts, slugging back gulps of beer, and contemplating the sensation.

But if your lifestyle calls for more reserve–doilys and manners and whatnot–then just try briskly salting your hazelnuts (or bread and butter, or cheese, whatever) and softly pull a breath of air through your ever-so-subtly parted lips (this is something familiar to wine tasters), feeling the action of air, salt, and food combine on your palate.

The result is a bit of a surprise: a waft of sweetness, a sharp-yet-rich quality, almost a little like candied citrus.

So, thumbs up, Maldon. Tonight it is cranberry and candied hazelnuts on a goat cheese and various greens salad for dinner. A perfect opportunity for Maldon Smoked salt.

Mark Bitterman :: Nov.02.2007 :: Finishing Salts, Sea Salt :: 1 Comment »

Taking a break from this week’s theme that everything in life is better with a Himalayan salt plate underneath it (still testing the millions of more strange permutations of food with variously shaped pink salt bricks), we recently conducted a salted caramel class with our good friend David Briggs of Xocolatl de David. Dave demonstrated the finer points of making caramel, I talked about our gourmet salt “starter set,” which includes briny fine Fleur de Sel de Camargue, minerally moistly coarse Sel Gris de l’Ile de Noirmoutier, sharp flaky Maldon sea salt, bold but subtle flaky Turkish Black Pyramid, clean granular Aleae Volcanic sea salt, and lustrous rich pastry-flaky Halen Mon Gold oak smoked sea salt.

Something interesting came up in the class. After the presentation of the six exotic, fun-sounding salts, many people gravitated toward the Halen Mon Gold. And why shouldn’t they? Rich, warm, oaky nose. Crackly texture. Pungent smoky saltiness. That combined with caramel? Sounds like a no brainer; and indeed, there was much ooing and aahhhing over that particular salted caramel combination. I had suggested the stalwart and steady fleur de sel as caramel’s ultimate companion, if only to provide a stodgy voice of reason to The Meadow’s boisterous crowd of over 30 people.

However, several others of an adventurous ilk tried salting the caramel with Turkish Black Pyramid, a Mediterranean sea salt blended with activated charcoal to give it a bold, beautiful appearance and imparting a delicate earthiness to its bold, solidly structured pyramidal crystals. And… Drumroll please…

The Turkish Black Pyramid finishing salt was a hit! As a matter of fact, the appreciative rumblings spread, and everyone was trying it. When David Briggs asked the group as a whole which salt they would like to stir into the caramel sauce he had been mixing up while the rest of us were experimenting with cubes of more solid caramel, Turkish was the crowd’s suggestion.

Mixed into the cooling caramel sauce, Turkish Black Pyramid sea salt was even better. I am at a loss to explain why. It is sharp, but partially masked with the pure but earthy-tasting charcoal. It is massive and bulky and crunchy, and it only partially dissolved in the salted caramel sauce, sticking around just enough to give the finished sauce a rare, delicate, crunchy saltiness. Perhaps it is the crisp boldness of the salt crystals picking up the cream in Briggs’ salted caramel recipe. The alchemy of such things is beyond comprehension. There is nothing more fun than refuting your own expectations and discovering something new.

Mark Bitterman :: Oct.26.2007 :: Finishing Salts, Salt and Chocolate, Sea Salt :: 2 Comments »

Habit is a second nature which prevents us from knowing the first, of which it has neither the cruelties nor the enchantments. So said Marcel Proust. I eat a green salad virtually every day, and it is not a habit I wish to break–regardless of its implications for the intimacy of my relationship with nature. Fortunately, I have salt: nature distilled, uncompromisingly authentic, and strangely unyielding to our efforts to describe it.

The following is a true story about eating Marlborough Flakey gourmet sea salt.

Last night I sat down with the family herd, squaring off against a nice heap of leafy greens, and commence to “get a graze on.” All went well, for about a 13th of a second, when, lo! what is this? The usual salad salt, Maldon, the flake gourmet salt par excellence . . . What? This is not that. This is something other. What we know about our salad–what we expect in our salad–is not what we are eating.

The herd grunts various expressions of bovine surprise, then distress, then acquiescence. Then, as one, the herd smiles, each according to the inner workings of the mind: some with surprised pleasure, some with pleasured surprise.

“What is this?” says an especially eloquent member of the herd. “It is frothy, tingly. It tingles. The spine tingles.”

To which another especially locquatious member of the herd retorted, “I think the word you are looking for is spangles. The salt has starry spangles. It’s the spangliness that you are talking about.”

“Mom! He said spangles when I said tingles,” countered the first.

“Because it’s spangles. Tingles doesn’t do it justice. Spangles. I can feel it.” The second vocal one was not to be dissuaded.

“Stop it!” shrieked one off the adults in the herd, who had been feeling disoriented since the first bite, the ocean’s roar filling her ears. “No arguing. Tingles. Spangles. Enough arguing! What is this salad? What is going on here? What–”

The fourth and final vocal member of the herd (it turns out all members of the family herd were highly vocal) interrupted. “It’s the salt! Someone pulled a swaparoo with our precious Maldon! Where is my precious? My precious?” Eyes bulging.

“But I like this. I like the tingles.”

“And I like its spangle.”

The herd recommenced to graze upon the salad. More appreciative grunting ensued. Attention turned to the deep cellar of salt at the center of the table. An especially tactile member of the herd ventured a few fingers inside, took a pinch, and let it fall on the tabletop. Where it glistened, its frothy crystals burning hyper white.

Another especially tactile member of the herd did the same, then pinched it, crumbled it, contemplated its special je ne sais quoi. Immutable stuff. It just sits there, like snow, only with promise of nourishment.

Marlborough Flakey, a superb, slightly pricey sea salt from New Zealand, had somehow found its way from the jar by the toaster, where it routinely offers service to the eternal glory of one of the undying passions of my wild Paris days, the “Tartine à l’avocat” at Dame Tartine in Paris’s 4e arrondissement. The simple open faced avocado sandwich done up as fare for art students: a cross-cultural conflagration of crunchy creamy salty sweet flavors produced from the casual combination of spelt toast, mushed avocado, ground Parameswaran’s Special Wynad peppercorns, and Marlborough Flakey New Zealand sea salt).

How New Zealand ever became “forever and anon the land known to one and all as the setting for Lord of the Rings,” I will never know. The forests of New Zealand are fine, I am sure, but the gourmet salt is something sublime, raging, making holographs of past and present and future in the twinkle of your salad eating eye, making words conflate and expand, making thoughts glop up and down and merge and separate like the glowing globs of a lava lamp. The legendary Lembas bread gifted to The Ringbearer the Elves of Lothlorein, were surely made with Marlborough Flakey.

But I digress. In short, the herd was impressed with the salt, and deeply thankful for the opportunity for new argument that it afforded. If you have not yet discovered the pleasures of flake salt on salad, definitely try making a nice macerated shallot vinaigrette, dressing, serving, and then strewing judiciously with the flat fine snappy flakes of Maldon salt. If Maldon is already a known thing, your knowledge of nature grows hackneyed and pale, grab some Marlborough Flakey sea salt. Re-invigorate the herd. Discover, as if for the first time, the jungle of flavors, textures, and aromas within your salad.

Mark Bitterman :: Oct.11.2007 :: Finishing Salts :: No Comments »

My first experience of moshio, or Amabito No Moshio, Japanese seaweed salt.  It was like cliff-diving some off some north pacific archipelago during a summer tempest–a rush of warmth braced by brine and wind, a comforting rush cloaked in a sense of danger. My mind raced across time, scenes of lighting stabbing through dark clouds, sunshine seeping through moist fields of safflower, canyons opening through ancient layers of chert, breccia, and limestone, oceans swelling with the breath of the moon and the wind. I was eating shrimp. Not sure whether it was the lightly carbonized shell of the shrimp, the caramelized flavors of the flesh, or something in the marinade, I asked what was in the dish.

This was at the sushi counter of a Japanese restaurant in Boulder, Colorado of all places, and the chef was not inclined to indulge his clientèle of mostly an improbably mishmash of IBM executives, rock climbers, and ranchers. “Shrimp,” he replied.

“But how do you cook it?”

“It’s grilled,” mumbled, and turned his back on me to skin a salmon.

Not knowing what else to do, I asked the waitress for another Sapporo. “That sure was good shrimp,” I added lamely. “Ah. Yes!” she replied, masking her boredom with some effort behind cool dark eyes. “What is in it?” “It’s special grilled shrimp,” she said, repeating verbatim what I had just relayed to her. “Yes, but what makes it special?”

A light went on behind her eyes, but her dignity apparently demanded that she extinguish it as soon as possible. “It is traditional Japanese,” she said, apparently not recognizing that the terms “traditional” and “special” present a certain contradiction. I persisted, asking pointedly what exactly the chef does to make it. She stared at me, then dissappeared without further explanation.

And that was that. No go.

A week later I returned. Facing the same waitress, the same chef, I again ordered the special shrimp, which was no longer on the menu. No matter; ten minutes later I was tasting a full, round intensity of flavor that I could not place, but which pervaded my senses. The waitress arrived unbidden, pouring me another Sapporo. “I had a talk with the chef. He says the shimp is just grilled, then sprinkled with moshio.”

Aha! Yes! Salt, but with a feeling in the mouth like no other salt.

But what is moshio? “Moshio is ancient Japanese sea salt. My grandfather made it by evaporating sweater on kelp.”

It has been years since then. But finally! I have found Moshio again, and now am eating it on EVERYTHING. The moshio we are selling in our store, The Meadow, is called Amabito No Moshio (also called Ancient Sea Salt). The finishing salt’s round, rich flavors are due in part to the presence of ample trace minerals (calcium, potassium, magnesium, iron, iodine etc.), plus the extraordinary quality of umami that comes from the unique techniques used in its production. The salt is very dry, with small but complexly articulated crystals of a luxurious beige color that complement its flavor beautifully.

I have used Amabito No Moshio as a finishing salt to great effect on fish, rice, roasted potatoes, pasta, red meat, pork. Then there was our dinner party where we dusted this sea salt dusted across the surface of a chocolate soufflé. I was dazzled. The savory, unctuous salt actually brought out sweetness and lurking fruit flavor in the bitter dark chocolate souffle.

Amabito No Moshio is also great as a cooking salt, in light soups and sauces where the delicate sea salt contributes to both aromas and flavors. Moshio is the earliest known sea salt produced by the Japanese, dating back to nearly 2,500 years ago. Although Japan is surrounded by sea water, the country’s humid, rainy climate has never been well suited for large-scale production of dry salt. It takes 10 tons of seaweed infused water to make just 200kg of this ancient sea salt.

In the good old days, many Japanese made do with salt-ash, which they produced by spreading seaweed on the beach to dry between storms, rinsing the plants in an isolated saltwater pool, and then boiling the brine with bits of remaining seaweed in a clay pot over a wood fire to evaporate the water, crystallize the salt and reducing the seaweed pieces to ash. This salt-ash mixture, Moshio became the staple salt of the region.

Today the production of ancient Moshio continues. Our Amabito No Moshio ancient sea salt is a finishing salt that is somewhat refined by modern production methods. Unpolluted salt water collected from the Seto-uchi Inland Sea is left in a large pool to stand for a while, evaporating some of the water and saturating the salt solution. Hon’dawara seaweed is then added to the salt water for infusion of its flavor and color.

After some time the seaweed is removed and the salt water is transferred to and cooked in a large iron pot until it gradually begins to crystallize becoming a mass resembling a chunky sherbet. This is then put into a centrifuge to extract more water. The last step in the process is to cook the salt mass in a large pot over an open fire stirring continuously with a large wooden paddle. This removes almost all moisture and the salt becomes tiny, free-flowing granules.

Our Amabito No Moshio is made on the tiny island of Kami- Kamagari in the Seto-uchi Inland Sea of Hiroshima Prefecture in Western Japan. It is one of 3,000 such small islands in Japan. The population is also tiny–a mere 2,777 according to the latest census. In 1984 archeological digging revealed an ancient (3rd to 4th century AD) salt-making pot. This find encouraged the locals to re-produce the historic ancient gray sea salt in 1998.

Mark Bitterman
Selmelier
The Meadow / gourmet salt - chocolate - wine - flowers

Mark Bitterman :: Mar.02.2007 :: Finishing Salts, Sea Salt :: No Comments »

Most everyone who walks through the door of our shop is totally unaware of the existence of finishing salts, either in name or in concept. A minority do have some idea of what finishing salts are, but have few clear ideas about how to use them. Only a small fraction of this minority has any clear idea of the various types of finishing salts produced around the world. The widespread practice of finishing food with an artisan-made, specialized salt is still in its infancy.

For this reason (despite the fact that we offer over 50 finishing salts, from the ultra-exotic Vietnamese Pearl sea salt and Shinkai Deep Sea salts to the relatively popular grey salts and flake salts), I always steer the conversation first towards Fleur de Sel. It is endlessly exciting to find that even the most passionate foodies are not fully aware of the scope and magnitude of benefits that lurk inside the fine, complex crystals of an authentic Fleur de Sel.

Fleur de Sel may not be the most obscure salt, but it remains the easiest to use, the most versatile, and the most well understood of the top tier finishing salts available today.
Distinguished by fine, glistening crystals in a pale shade of summer clouds, Fleur de Sel reigns supreme in the world of finishing salts, imparting an extraordinary level of complexity to food.

The powers of Fleur de Sel border on the mystical, yet the characteristics that give it these powers are not difficult to understand. However, before delving into the wonders of Fleur de Sel, it’s worth taking a moment to talk about finishing salts in general. As a starting point, whenever I source a salt I look at the water supply. Because finishing salts are unrefined, it is important that the water supply be of a very quality, naturally high in minerals and low in undesirable elements such as pollution. Because information about source seawater can be confusing, or may not even be available to consumers, it is important to purchase a finishing salt from a knowledgeable and reputable source. Fortunately, there are a number of Fleur de Sels harvested from excellent waters.

An eternity could be spent contemplating the charms of Fleur de Sel, though its greatness lies in the perfect combination of four facets. First, are the facets of the crystals themselves. Fleur de Sel’s irregularly sized and unevenly shaped crystals are key to its behavior on food and in the mouth. Smaller crystals dissolve quickly, pouring out a surge of salty intensity, but almost as quickly, the sensation subsides, and then as larger crystals break apart and dissolve they, too, provide a surge of saltiness. The resulting sensation is one of constantly changing rates of acceleration and deceleration as the salt, the food, and you mind race to integrate themselves into something complex yet cohesive, flavorful yet balanced.

The second facet of Fleur de Sel is its moisture content. A good Fleur de Sel from Brittany will have about 10.3% residual moisture. This gives the crystals integrity on moist or steaming foods; because the salt crystals already have moisture in them, they have the power to subtly repel outside moisture, and do not melt as easily as a drier salt. The result is a wonderful, fine crunch that is both satisfying in itself and also contributes to the way Fleur de Sel and food combine as the they are eaten.

The third facet of Fleur de Sel is its mineral make-up. Fleur de Sel is very high in minerals, due to the well-controlled evaporation process of the paludiers (salt rakers) harvesting the salt from the salt pans where the seawater is evaporated. Fleur de Sel is .25% calcium, .37% magnesium, and .09% potassium, and contains varying quantities of iron, zinc, manganese, and literally dozens of other trace minerals. These combine with the sodium chloride that makes up the majority of the salt to achieve an extremely well-rounded, mellow finishing salt.

Fourth, Fleur de Sel is beautiful. It ranges in hue from barn owl grey to oyster white, and captures the full rainbow of colors in its moist, refractive crystals. The visual impact of a fine Fleur de Sel on a table setting should not be underestimated. As I say to my customers: Salt is nature’s way of showing enthusiasm. Fleur de Sel is nature at its most exuberant, packed with the depths and mysteries of the sea, and broods in the mind’s eye with a rich cultural heritage that links back to the stone-age.

Each quality described above have about 10 nuances each that are important, but which would take pages more, and perhaps a few Martinis, to do full justice. So I will leave it at that.

While we continue to bring in fabulously beautiful, delicious, practical, exotic, strange, and confounding salts from around the globe, Fleur de Sel will remain a mainstay finishing salt at The Meadow, our shop on North Mississippi Avenue in Portland, Oregon. No amount of fame can diminish it. Nature abides all, and it is only we humans who must remember to be humble in the face of its strange combination of eloquence and reserve.

Mark Bitterman
Selmelier
The Meadow / gourmet salt - chocolate - wine - flowers

Mark Bitterman :: Dec.17.2006 :: Finishing Salts :: No Comments »