Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat

n contrast to the revelations I experienced with Salt and Fat, I’ve learned the value of Acid gradually. It started at home, with the food my mom, grandmothers, and aunts cooked each night.

Maman, who’d grown up eating lemons and limes as an afternoon snack, never thought a dish tasted right unless it made her pucker. She always added a sour element to the plate, to balance the sweet, the salty, the starchy, the rich. Sometimes it was a sprinkle of dried sumac berries over kebabs and rice. With Kuku Sabzi, a frittata packed with herbs and greens, it was a few spoonfuls of my grandmother Parivash’s torshi, or mixed pickles. For No-Ruz, the Persian New Year, my dad would drive down to Mexico to find sour oranges for us to squeeze ceremoniously over fried fish and herbed rice. Into other classic dishes, Maman layered ghooreh, sour green grapes, and zereshk, the tiny tart fruits known as barberries. But mostly we used yoghurt to achieve that desired tang, spooning it over everything from eggs to soups to stews and rice and, though I wince to think of it now, spaghetti with meat sauce.

I wasn’t like the other kids at school. Looking at my classmates’ peanut butter sandwiches next to the kuku sabzi, cucumbers, and feta Maman packed in my lunch box, it was clear that my home life was dramatically different from theirs. I grew up in a house filled with the language, customs, and food of another place and time. Each year, I eagerly anticipated my grandmother Parvin’s visits from Iran. I loved nothing more than watching her unpack while the room flooded with exotic aromas: saffron, cardamom, and rosewater mingled with the humid, slightly mouldy Caspian air that had tucked itself into the fabric lining of her bags over the years. One by one, she’d pull out treats: pistachios roasted with saffron and lime juice, sour cherry preserves, sheets of homemade lavashak, plum leather so sour it made my cheeks hurt. Growing up, I learned from my family to delight in sour foods and let my palate become the most Persian part of me.

But it wasn’t until I left home that I realised that there’s so much more to acid than just the pucker.

As part of my parents’ ongoing efforts to delay our assimilation for as long as possible, we never celebrated Thanksgiving. I first celebrated the holiday in college, with a friend and her family. I loved the hubbub involved in preparing and gathering for the meal, but the actual eating part of Thanksgiving was kind of a letdown. We sat down to a table piled high with food: a humongous whole turkey, roasted and ceremoniously carved;

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brown gravy made with the drippings; mashed potatoes thick with butter and cream; creamed spinach spiced with nutmeg; Brussels sprouts boiled so long that my friend’s nearly toothless grandmother could easily chew them; and stuffing packed with sausage, bacon, and chestnuts. I really love to eat, but these soft, rich, bland foods bored my palate after just a few bites. Spooning more cranberry sauce onto my plate each time the bowl passed my way, I kept eating in hope of tasting something satisfying. But it never happened, and every year on the fourth Thursday of November I ate until I felt mildly ill, like everyone else.

Once I started cooking at Chez Panisse, I began to spend the holiday with friends from the restaurant. At my first Thanksgiving with other cooks, my palate never became bored. I never felt like eating was a chore. I never felt sick afterwards. This certainly wasn’t because the foods we’d cooked were somehow healthier or more virtuous. So what was it?

It hit me that the Thanksgiving dinners I’d spent with other cooks mirrored the traditional Persian meals I’d grown up eating. Acid had been tucked into every dish, and it had brought the meal to life. Sour cream lent a tang to mashed potatoes. A splash of white wine added just before serving lightened the gravy. Hidden in the big, beautiful mass of stuffing among torn sourdough croutons, greens, and bites of sausage were prunes soaked in white wine—secret caches of acid, most welcome. Roasted winter squash and Brussels sprouts were tossed in an Italian Agrodolce, a sauce made with sugar, chillies, and vinegar. The salsa verde featured fried sage, a welcome partner to the cranberry-quince sauce that I’d made with a nod to the Persian quince preserves Maman jarred every autumn. Even dessert, with a drizzle of dark caramel for the pies and a touch of crème fraîche folded into the whipped cream, had a tang. It dawned on me that the reason why everyone spoons so much cranberry sauce over everything at Thanksgiving is that on most tables, it’s just about the only form of acid available.

I began to see that the true value of acid is not its pucker, but rather, balance.

Acid grants the palate relief, and makes food more appealing by offering contrast.

Soon after, I learned another of acid’s secrets. Late one morning at Chez Panisse, I was rushing to finish a batch of carrot soup in time for lunch. Like most of the soups we served in the café, it was pretty simple. I sweated onions in olive oil and butter. I peeled and sliced the carrots and added them to the pot once the onions were soft. I submerged the vegetables in stock, seasoned with salt, and simmered the soup until everything was tender. Then I blended the contents of the pot into a velvety purée and adjusted the salt.

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It tasted perfect. I brought a spoonful to Russ, the eternally boyish chef, as he rushed upstairs for the menu meeting with the servers. He tasted it, and without pausing to turn around, said, “Add a capful of vinegar to the pot before you bring it up!”

Vinegar? Who’d ever heard of putting vinegar in soup? Was Russ crazy? Did I hear him right? I didn’t want to ruin the entire pot, so I took a spoonful of my beautiful soup and added a single drop of red wine vinegar. Tasting it, I was floored. I’d expected the vinegar to turn the soup into a sweet-and-sour abomination. Instead, the vinegar acted like a prism, revealing the soup’s nuanced flavours—I could taste the butter and oil, the onions and stock, even the sugar and minerals within the carrots. If blindfolded and quizzed, never in a million years would I have been able to identify vinegar as one of the ingredients. But now, if something I cooked and seasoned ever tasted so dull again, I’d know exactly what was missing.

Just as I’d learned to constantly evaluate a dish for salt, now I knew I needed to always taste for acid, too. It was finally clear to me—acid is salt’s alter ego. While salt enhances flavours, acid balances them. By acting as a foil to salt, fat, sugar, and starch, acid makes itself indispensable to everything we cook.

Bright Cabbage Slaw

Serves 4 generously

I know that some people hate coleslaw. But I’ve converted even the most fervent among them with this version, which bears no resemblance to the cloying stuff many of us grew up eating. Light and clean, it’ll lend crunch and brightness to any plate. Serve the Mexican variation with Beer-Battered Fish (page 312) and tortillas for delicious fish tacos. Make Classic Southern Slaw to serve alongside Spicy Fried Chicken (page 320). And remember, the richer the food you plan to serve with it, the more acidic the slaw should be. ½ medium head of red or green cabbage ½ small red onion, thinly sliced 55ml lemon juice Salt 15g coarsely chopped parsley leaves 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar 6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Quarter the cabbage through the core. Use a sharp knife to cut the core out at an angle.

Thinly slice the cabbage crosswise and place in a colander set inside a large salad bowl.

Season with two generous pinches of salt to help draw out water, toss the slices, and set aside.

In a small bowl, toss the sliced onion with the lemon juice and let it sit for 20 minutes to macerate (see page 118). Set aside.

After 20 minutes, drain any water the cabbage may have given off (it’s fine if there’s nothing to drain—sometimes cabbage isn’t very watery). Place the cabbage in the bowl and add the parsley and the macerated onions (but not their lemony juices, yet). Dress the slaw with the vinegar and olive oil. Toss very well to combine.

Taste and adjust, adding the remaining macerating lemon juice and salt as needed.

When your palate zings with pleasure, it’s ready. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

Store leftover slaw covered, in the fridge, for up to two days.

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Variations If you don’t have cabbage on hand, or simply want to try something new, make an Alterna-slaw, using 1 large bunch raw kale, 675g raw Brussels sprouts, or 675g raw kohlrabi instead.

For Mexi-Slaw, substitute a neutral-tasting oil for the olive oil, lime juice for the lemon juice, and coriander for the parsley. Add 1 sliced jalapeño pepper to the cabbage along with the macerated onions. Taste and adjust seasoning with the macerating lime juice and salt.

To make Asian Slaw, toss the cabbage with just one generous pinch of salt and add 2 teaspoons soy sauce. Substitute lime juice for the lemon juice. Skip the parsley and add 1 small garlic clove, finely grated or pounded; 2 thinly sliced spring onions; 1 teaspoon finely grated ginger; and 25g chopped, toasted peanuts to the cabbage along with the macerated onions. Skip the red wine vinegar and olive oil and dress with Rice Wine Vinaigrette (page 246). Taste and adjust seasoning with the macerating lime juice and salt.

To make Classic Southern Slaw, substitute 115g stiff Classic Sandwich Mayo (page 375) for the olive oil and vinegar. Add 1 teaspoon sugar, 135g julienned or grated carrots, and 1 julienned or grated tart apple, such as Honeycrisp or Fuji, to the cabbage along with the macerated onions.

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Shaved Carrot Salad with Ginger and Lime

Serves 6

210g golden or black raisins 1 tablespoon cumin seeds 900g carrots 4 teaspoons finely grated ginger 1 garlic clove, finely grated or pounded with a pinch of salt 1 to 2 large jalapeños, seeds and veins removed if desired, minced 60g coarsely chopped coriander leaves and tender stems, plus a few sprigs for garnish Salt Lime Vinaigrette (page 243)

In a small bowl, submerge the raisins in boiling water. Let them sit for 15 minutes to rehydrate and plump up. Drain and set aside.

Place the cumin seeds in a small, dry frying pan and set over medium heat. Swirl the pan constantly to ensure even toasting. Toast until the first few seeds begin to pop and emit a savoury aroma, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat. Immediately dump the seeds into the bowl of a mortar or a spice grinder. Grind finely with a pinch of salt.

Set aside.

Trim and peel the carrots. Using either a Japanese mandoline or a sharp knife, thinly slice the carrots lengthwise. Use a sharp knife to cut the slices into matchsticks. If that seems too troublesome, you can use a vegetable peeler to make thin ribbons or just slice the carrots into thin coins.

Combine carrots, ginger, garlic, jalapeño, coriander, cumin, and raisins in a large bowl. Season with three generous pinches of salt and dress with lime vinaigrette. Taste and adjust seasoning with salt and more lime juice as needed. Refrigerate the salad for 30 minutes to allow flavours to come together. To serve, toss to distribute seasonings, heap onto a large platter, and garnish with a few sprigs of coriander.

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Shaved Fennel and Radishes

Serves 4 to 6

3 medium fennel bulbs (about 675g) 1 bunch radishes, trimmed and washed (about 8 radishes) 30g parsley leaves Optional: 30g chunk of Parmesan Salt Freshly ground black pepper About 75ml Lemon Vinaigrette (page 242)

Trim the fennel by removing any stalks and the very tip of the bottom end, leaving the bulb intact. Halve the bulbs through the root and remove any fibrous outer layers.

Using either a Japanese mandoline or a sharp knife, cut the fennel bulbs crosswise into paper-thin slices, discarding the cores. Reserve the discarded fennel for another use, or sneak it into Tuscan Kale and Bean Soup (page 274). Slice the radishes just a hair thicker, about 3mm, discarding the ends.

In a large bowl, combine the fennel, radishes, and parsley leaves. If using Parmesan, use a vegetable peeler to shave shards directly into the bowl. Just before serving, season with two generous pinches of salt and a small pinch of pepper. Dress with vinaigrette. Taste and adjust, adding more salt and vinaigrette as needed, then arrange on a serving platter. Serve immediately.

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Summer Tomato and Herb Salad

Serves 4 to 6

Is there anything more refreshing to eat than a perfect tomato salad showered with herbs? If there is, I can’t think of it. Add this salad to your summer repertoire, changing the tomatoes and the herbs with each passing week. If you grow tired of green basil, look for less common herbs such as anise hyssop, also known as liquorice mint, or opal or Greek basil at the farmers’ market. Indian, Mexican, and Asian grocery stores are also great places to find special herbs including all sorts of mint, shiso, Thai basil, and Vietnamese coriander, any one of which will work nicely in this salad.

2 to 3 mixed heirloom tomatoes, such as Marvel Stripe, Cherokee Purple, or Brandywine, cored and sliced into 5mm slices Flaky salt Freshly ground black pepper 225ml Tomato Vinaigrette (page 245). Hint: use the cores and end slices of the salad tomatoes 400g cherry tomatoes, rinsed, stemmed, and halved 60g any combination of freshly picked leaves of basil, parsley, anise hyssop, chervil, tarragon, or 2.5cm pieces of chives

Just before serving, lay out the heirloom tomato slices on a serving platter in a single layer and season with salt and pepper. Drizzle lightly with vinaigrette. In a separate bowl, combine the cherry tomatoes and season liberally with salt and pepper. Dress with vinaigrette, taste and adjust salt as needed, and carefully mound the cherry tomatoes over the tomato slices.

Place the fresh herbs in the salad bowl and dress lightly with vinaigrette, salt, and pepper to taste. Pile herb salad over the tomatoes and serve immediately.

Variations To make Caprese Salad, alternate heirloom tomato slices with 1cm slices of fresh mozzarella or burrata cheese before seasoning and dressing. Skip the herb salad.

Instead, when seasoning the cherry tomatoes in a separate bowl, add 12 torn basil leaves. Mound the cherry tomatoes over the tomato slices. Serve with warm, crusty bread.

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To make Ricotta and Tomato Salad Toasts, whip together 325g fresh ricotta cheese with extra-virgin olive oil, flaky salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Brush 4 2.5cm slices of crusty bread with extra-virgin olive oil and toast until golden brown in a 200°C oven for about 10 minutes. Rub each toast lightly with a raw garlic clove on one side. Spread 5 tablespoons ricotta onto the garlic side of each toast. Lay slices of heirloom tomatoes over the ricotta and then pile sliced heirloom tomatoes on top.

Divide 30g herb salad atop the toasts and serve immediately.

To make Persian Shirazi Salad, toss ½ thinly sliced red onion in 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar in a small bowl and let sit for 15 minutes. Stripey peel 4 Persian cucumbers, cut into 1cm slices, and place in a large bowl. Add cherry tomatoes and 1 pounded or finely grated garlic clove to the cucumbers. Mix in the onions (but not their vinegar, yet). Season with salt and pepper and dress with Lime Vinaigrette (page 243). Taste the mixture and add some of the reserved vinegar if needed, then continue as above, mounding the mixture atop the sliced tomatoes. Top with an herb salad of dill, coriander, parsley, and mint, also dressed with Lime Vinaigrette.

To make Greek Salad, toss ½ thinly sliced red onion in 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar in a small bowl and let sit for 15 minutes. Stripey peel 4 Persian cucumbers, cut into 1cm slices, and place in a large bowl. Add cherry tomatoes, 1 pounded or finely grated garlic clove, 125g rinsed, pitted black olives, and 115g rinsed and crumbled feta cheese to the cucumbers.

Mix in the onions (but not their vinegar, yet). Season with salt and pepper and dress with Red Wine Vinaigrette (page 240). Taste the mixture and add some of the reserved vinegar if needed, then continue as above, mounding the mixture atop the sliced tomatoes.

Skip the herb salad.

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DRESSINGS

The most important thing about any dressing is to strike a proper balance of Salt, Fat, and Acid. Get that right, and any salad will taste good.

To rid shallots (and onions) of their harsh bite, give them ample time to macerate in acid. That’s just a fancy way of saying, toss shallots with vinegar or citrus juice and let them steep for a bit before adding the oil and other ingredients.

Pairing salads with the right dressings is as important as pairing a meal with the right wine. Some foods require richness, while others ask for brightness. Use this chart to inspire and guide you.

For tossed salads, place the greens in a large bowl and season lightly with salt. Add a conservative amount of dressing and toss with your hands to coat the leaves. Taste a leaf, then add salt and more dressing as needed.

For composed salads, always make sure that every element is seasoned and dressed.

Marinate beetroots before setting them down on the plate and drizzling them with Green Goddess. Season every slice of tomato and fresh mozzarella before spooning Balsamic Vinaigrette over them. Dress both Slow-Roasted Salmon (page 310) and the shaved fennel salad you serve alongside it with Any-Other-Citrus Vinaigrette made with blood oranges. Make every bite of every salad delicious. You’ll start to look forward to salad with a fervour you never expected.

Red Wine Vinaigrette

Makes about 125ml

1 tablespoon finely diced shallot 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar 6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil Salt Freshly ground black pepper

In a small bowl or jar, let the shallot sit in the vinegar for 15 minutes to macerate (see page 118), then add the olive oil, a generous pinch of salt, and a small pinch of pepper. Stir or shake to combine, then taste with a leaf of lettuce and adjust salt and acid as needed.

Cover and refrigerate leftovers for up to 3 days.

Ideal for garden lettuces, rocket, chicories, Belgian endive, Little Gem and romaine lettuce, beetroots, tomatoes, blanched, grilled, or roasted vegetables of any kind, and for Bright Cabbage Slaw, Fattoush, Grain or Bean Salad, Greek Salad, Spring Panzanella.

Variation To make Honey-Mustard Vinaigrette, add 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard and 1½ teaspoons honey and continue as above.

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Balsamic Vinaigrette

Makes about 75ml

1 tablespoon finely diced shallot 1 tablespoon aged balsamic vinegar 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil Salt Freshly ground black pepper

In a small bowl or jar, let the shallot sit in the vinegar for 15 minutes to macerate (see page 118), then add the olive oil, a generous pinch of salt, and a pinch of pepper. Stir or shake to combine, then taste with a leaf of lettuce and adjust salt and acid as needed. Cover and refrigerate leftovers for up to 3 days.

Ideal for rocket, garden lettuces, Belgian endive, chicories, romaine and Little Gem lettuce, blanched, grilled, or roasted vegetables of any kind, and for Grain or Bean Salad, Winter Panzanella.

Variations To make Parmesan Vinaigrette, which is perfect for hearty chicories and grain salads, add 40g finely grated Parmesan and continue as above.

To make Brown Butter Vinaigrette for dressing bread salads or roasted vegetables, substitute 4 tablespoons brown butter for the olive oil and continue as above. Bring refrigerated leftovers back to room temperature before using.

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