Taste-testing REAL CAJUN by Donald Link

REAL CAJUN: RUSTIC HOME COOKING FROM DONALD LINK’S LOUISIANA
by Donald Link with Paula Disbrowe; photographs by Chris Granger
(Clarkson Potter, 2009)

At the risk of tooting our own horn a bit too loudly, many OA interns and staffers would agree that the company of our colleagues is one of the more gratifying—and fun—perks of the job. So it wasn’t exclusively for research purposes that three of us gathered on a recent Sunday afternoon to cook a meal from Donald Link’s REAL CAJUN. Please note that what follows is by no means a comprehensive (or even partial) cookbook review. Rather, in the spirit of Chef Link’s passion for cooking with his family and friends, we decided to do the same.

We were also inspired by Keith Pandolfi’s profile of Link in our recent Southern food issue, in which the author describes trying his hand at Link’s gumbo in preparation for this year’s Superbowl (which would, of course, end in victory for the long-beleaguered yet much-loved New Orleans Saints). Flipping through our review copy of REAL CAJUN (another perk; aren’t we lucky?), we decided to begin with a beverage, anchor the meal with a main dish, and top it off with dessert. Though we were tempted by the Bourbon Cherry Lemonade (which calls for lemonade “as needed,” presumably indicating that, if you’re a good Louisianan, you won’t need much of it), we ultimately settled upon Cathy’s Bloody Mary, which is Link’s mother-in-law’s version of the Sunday staple, as our libation of choice. It turned out to be the perfect drink for toasting one of the first almost-warm days of almost-spring in Little Rock. Since Pandolfi had already gone the gumbo route in his piece, we decided to try another of REAL CAJUN’s many seafood-based dishes as our entree: Crab Cakes with Jalapeño Remoulade. Finally, at the behest of our Opelousas-bred editorial assistant, we chose the Satsuma Buttermilk Pie for dessert (even knowing that, barring an interstate grocery trip, we’d likely have to settle for tangerines).

Cathy’s Bloody Mary

I’m no Bloody Mary expert, but I know what I like. The best Bloodies I’ve had were thick, salty, and spicy, with just a hint of seafood—kind of like alcoholic cocktail sauce. I prefer garnishes, but not too many. And I certainly loathe anything that tastes like it came out of a ketchup bottle.
 
I was pleased to see that Cathy’s recipe calls for a blend of straight-up tomato juice and Clamato: I have a secret affection for Clamato juice, and have been known to tout its glorious flavor over great Bloodies at a cutesy French café, only to be assured by the bartender that there was no clam juice included—preposterous! On its own, clam-tomato juice can be a little terrifying, but as Cathy’s script assured us, cut with V8 and a healthy dose of horseradish, the flavor was near-perfect. A significant dose of Louisiana Hot Sauce brought the spiciness to the fore, and after the drinks were over ice I garnished them with freshly ground black pepper. Cathy’s recipe also suggested celery, lemon wedge, and a pickled-okra garnish. I pushed the envelope a little by throwing in a lime wedge, too, but I feel that pickled okra is a necessary part (more so than celery) of any decent Bloody Mary. And I should probably confess that I selected the most Southern, well-distributed vodka available: Tito’s Handmade Vodka from Austin, Texas. For this experiment, it felt appropriate to keep even the hooch regional, and I’m religious about Tito’s.
 
Over all, my own mixology mastery aside, the cocktails were a hit. Nobody complained that they were too thick, or too fishy, too spicy, or too strong. We even had seconds. They made for a nice, incidental appetizer on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I’d highly recommend them.

—NE

Crab Cakes with Jalapeño Remoulade

Although Arkansas shares a border with Link’s native Louisiana, it would be a stretch to claim Cajun country as a neighbor to Little Rock, which sits right in the middle of the state. Furthermore, Little Rock is at least three hundred and fifty miles from the Gulf of Mexico (as the crow flies) at any given point. Finding ourselves at such a disadvantage in the fresh-seafood department, we were forced to ignore the recipe’s specific instructions to use “best-quality lump crab meat,” instead settling for the pasteurized variety—it was all our Fresh Market had to offer. (If there’s a better place to find seafood in Little Rock, please let us know!)

I had never made crab cakes before this taste test, but I had big L.L. Bean moccasins to fill: those of my father. Because of a shellfish allergy, his seafood repertoire is limited to crab cakes. With a skill perhaps analogous to the heightened senses of the blind or deaf, Dad makes up for his inability to eat (or touch) lobster or shrimp by knocking his crab cakes out of the park. So much so that, although the recipe is not his own, my aunt once commandeered it for the Winston-Salem Junior League’s cookbook, reverently naming the dish “Marks’s Crab Cakes.” So with the hope that a genetic predisposition would make up for my lack of access to premium ingredients, I fortified myself with a swig of Bloody Mary and got to work. In addition to a bracing beverage, I would also recommend tackling this recipe with the help of a pair of sous-chef friends, ideally ones who are willing to pick through the crab meat for shells and chat you up while you sauté the onion, poblano, and garlic. Beyond that, trust REAL CAJUN’s instructions to guide you along the path to crab-cake bliss.

Link’s cakes call for just enough bread crumbs and wet ingredients (mayonnaise, Creole mustard, egg) to bind them together, but the lump crab and diced veggies get virtually all of the attention. A half-hour in the fridge while we mixed and sipped our second Bloody Mary lends structural integrity, allowing the cakes to survive the flipping process even in the hands of an unsteady spatula-wielder.

By the time we carefully transferred the finished crab cakes from skillet to serving plate, the Jalapeño Remoulade had been chilling for nearly two hours. In terms of both taste and temperature, it lent the perfect coolness—with a fresh, peppery kick—to the warm crab cakes. And while crab meat is distinctive for its sweetness, the complementary spice of fresh poblano and powdered ancho chiles provided balance.

In a matter of minutes, the three of us had reduced a plate of five crab cakes to a glistening wasteland of crumbs and stray drops of remoulade, disregarding both stomach space and ladylike table manners in favor of epicurean pleasure. The verdict? Move over, dad—there’s a new Ace of [crab] Cakes in the family.

—SCA

Satsuma Buttermilk Pie

Anyone who has experienced the cosmic pairing of tangy citrus with sweetened dairy will know that Satsuma Buttermilk Pie was the obvious choice for topping off an evening of sumptuous delights.

Having heard that cooking is an art while baking is a science, we thought a step-by-step approach would yield the desired results. If only it were that easy. For starters, Donald Link’s recipe calls for a homemade graham-cracker pie shell, which—while undoubtedly worth the effort—required overnight preparation, something our stomachs could not simply abide. Making do, we committed our first misstep and settled on a pre-baked pie crust. Also, satsumas—Japanese citruses that populate the Louisiana subtropics—are hard to locate in Arkansas (especially when they are well out of season!). We found a fitting, though less exotically named, replacement in the form of organic tangerines.

With the aroma of the tangerine peel suffusing the kitchen, we set out to measuring, mixing, and stirring our ingredients—eggs, buttermilk, sugar, flour, zest, and juice. We filled the pie crust with our honey-colored batter and popped it in the oven for its magical transformation.

Well before the kitchen timer went off, we were hovering to check our progress, and when it did finally ring, we were Pavlovian dogs ready for our reward. But the pie, much to our hungry hearts’ dismay, was not ready. Still liquidy at the center, we decided to give it another ten. When the timer went off for the second time, we realized that our pie was not going to set, a baker’s worst fear. A far cry from the meringue-crowned debutantes on Southern café counters, our pie came out of the oven a marvelous blunder, a Dreamsicle soup surrounded by layers of custard and crust.
 
Maybe the Jalapeño Remoulade made us overconfident, or maybe the stiff drinks made us a bit careless. We tend to think it was doomed from the get-go, and that we were being punished for our initial shortcuts. Whatever the case may be, our Satsuma Buttermilk Pie, unworthy of a pedestal and better served with straws than spoons, was ready to be eaten. What we learned is that failure never tasted so sweet.

—BS

In what we’d like to think was true Louisiana form, we had gorged ourselves on food, drink, tunes, and good company. It won’t be the last time we turn to REAL CAJUN for great-tasting, accessible recipes that evoke—and fuel—the pleasures of the good life.