... Okay, that's not exactly how it went down. But, through some means, nefarious or otherwise (I tend to favor nefarious, but it just takes so much planning) I obtained my first Good Foodie Challenge.
Capers.
My first thought; Just what have I gotten myself in to?
I kid.
Capers tend to be one of those things that you love or you hate. On second thought, I've never heard anyone declare their undying food-love for capers, but it's a lot nicer than saying a lot of people just hate them.
I, at least, get along with them well enough. The flavor is sometimes described as pungeant and piquant.
Piquant? Really? To me, this is one of those words that you throw around when you want to sound like you have every right to be talking about whatever it is you're spouting, but really have no idea. In the end, it's just another way of saying something adds that little something, and it's a good something. In a word? Tasty. Such a term may be too pedestrian for the big wigs, but I've yet to grow into mine, and it suits me just fine.
The question remains, though, as to just what a caper is. And what it is, is, is the bud of a plant. Not to be confused with caperberries, which are the actual fruit, and are roughly grape-sized. Capers, on the other hand, range from the size of the end of your pinkie to, say, the size of a BB pellet. As a rule, the smaller, the better.
Unless you're picking up enough to last you through the next apocalypse, you'll find them in a brine, having been dried first. Imagine a little pea looking thing in a jar of salty liquid. Sounds delicious, no? Fine, fine, but stick with me a little longer, we're getting to the good part.
Now that the quick lesson in food anthropology is dealt with (yes, you can put away the pitchforks), we can get on to the point - just what do you do with them?
Capers have found their way into the hearts of a few dishes, at least, acting as a unique flavor element in a sauce (like remoulade) or simply tieing things together as a garnish (try some with gravlox). One dish in particular stood out to me, though, when deciding on how to bring the capers to bear.
Chicken Piccata.
Usually done with a cut of meat that has been pounded flat (escalope, or scalloped) in order to both tenderize and reduce the required cook time, I figured I'd up the anti a bit and turn it into a roulade. That is to say, put stuff inside, roll it up, and slice it. You also cook it somewhere in there, for the record.
To assist the following description, I posit to you the following visual aide; a picture of the end result.
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| So my photography is even more amateur than my... everything else. Surprise, surprise. |
As you may have figured out, you clever reader you, taking it from a flat cut to a roulade meant I had to fill it with something. That something decided to be some good grain mustard and fresh tarragon. A nice compliment to the more sour and high pitched flavors of the lemon and capers? A method to my madness, it seems, does rear its head on occasion.
After this treatment (with some salt and pepper, of course), it's a simple matter to roll up the chicken, dredge it in flour, and start searing it in a pan. After a good sear has formed, pop it into the oven to finish cooking.
But where are the capers! I can hear the cries from here (yes, that does mean I can hear into the future - I'm full of nifty talents like that). Fear not, for they will bring their powers to bear in the sauce. And since we're making a pan sauce, we need those delicious chicken drippings to make it happen.
So once the chicken is cooked (and has been given a bit of a rest so that said drippings will... you know... drip), we start on the sauce. First a bit of lemon so that the acid will pull all those tasty bits from the pan, then some stock (okay, I was using vegetable broth) for bulk. A bit of mustard, some more fresh tarragon, and yes, the capers (rinsed - remember that brine means they're basically packaged in salt). Of course, unless you want this to be a nice caper soup poured over the plate, it needs to be thickened.
Enter what I affectionately refer to as roux pellets. All you have to do is take a bit of butter, rub a bit of flour into it (about equal parts) and knock it into little balls. Toss a few of these into the mix, and you'll have something that looks downright edible instead of something you need a straw for. Note that, as with all things roux, you'll need at least a good simmer to get it to do its thing.
I suppose I should mention that yes, the chicken was plated over a bed of braised collards. Do you get the details on those? 'Fraid not. Patience is a virtue, as they say. I will say, though, that they were rather tasty.
And there you have it.
They said unto me, capers. And I say unto them, done and done.
