Publisher's Weekly Review
In this excellent, accessible cookbook, Nosrat leads readers through the cooking process. She didn't set out to become a chef, but was so moved by her first meal at Chez Panisse that she wrote Chef Alice Waters a letter asking to bus tables. Amazingly, she got the gig, and she jumped into the deep end of the culinary spectrum, soaking up as much knowledge as she could. In even, measured tones, she explains how salt-even the shape of the crystals-can affect a dish's overall flavor as well as specific proteins, how fat results in a food's crispness, how heat influences flavor via caramelization, and, perhaps most importantly, how to balance all these elements when composing a dish or a meal. Basic techniques and recipes, such as Vietnamese cucumber salad and pasta al ragu, prove her points. Over the course of the book, readers will learn how to make the perfect Caesar salad, break down a chicken, boil an egg to the desired doneness, and put those skills to use in creating many other dishes. MacNaughton's whimsical illustrations, charts, and graphs add to the experience. This exceptional debut is sure to inspire greater confidence in readers and enable them to create better meals on their own. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* As Nosrat understands, the elements of good cooking couldn't be simpler. Success in the kitchen depends on just four elements: salt, fat, acid, and heat. Any dish that doesn't provide a punch of hearty flavor may be improved by adding good salt not just any salt, but a particular salt appropriate to the task. Pasta needs kosher salt in the cooking water, but steamed vegetables profit from a sprinkling of flaky salt. Fat, be it extra-virgin olive oil or fresh butter, adds satisfying mouthfeel. Acids alter foods' textures and brighten flavors. Applying heat correctly makes all the difference. High heat sears a steak, but gentle heat yields the tenderest scrambled eggs. Trained at famed Chez Panisse, Nosrat lays out the science of cooking, but only insofar as it enhances flavors and creates gastronomic art. Culinary students and serious home cooks can discover from both text and drawings how to succeed through fundamentals of their craft.--Knoblauch, Mark Copyright 2017 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Working in the trenches of Chez Panisse's gourmet kitchen, Nosrat discovered the secret behind great cooking-not memorizing recipes, but knowing the balance among four key elements: salt, fat, acid, and heat. Nosrat invites readers to learn what it takes to master these components and take their cooking from good to great. This basic principle underscores the concepts and recipes presented throughout this book, and serves as the backbone for Nosrat's theory of cooking. Divided into two parts, the first half details each of the four essential ingredients and how to use them to their full potential. The second part includes a chapter on "Kitchen Basics" (a useful primer on tools and ingredients), followed by a variety of recipes to put Nosrat's theory in to practice. Alongside Nosrat's instructions, MacNaughton's illustrations add a touch of whimsy to the text, highlighting the techniques and skills presented in a clever manner. This is a visual story (with a heavy nod to food science) as much as a guide to healthy cooking. VERDICT A fun, educational addition to all collections. The recipes are varied, and the concepts approachable.-Gricel Dominguez, Florida -International Univ. Lib. © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat Growing up, I thought salt belonged in a shaker at the table, and nowhere else. I never added it to food, or saw Maman add it to food. When my aunt Ziba, who had a well-documented taste for salt, sprinkled it onto her saffron rice at the table each night, my brothers and I giggled. We thought it was the strangest, funniest thing in the world. "What on earth," I wondered, "can salt do for food?" I associated salt with the beach, where I spent my childhood seasoned with it. There were the endless hours in the Pacific, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of ocean water when I misjudged the waves. Tidepooling at twilight, my friends and I often fell victim to the saltwater spray while we poked at anemones. And my brothers, chasing me on the sand with giant kelp, would tickle and taunt me with its salty, otherworldly tassels whenever they caught up to me. Maman always kept our swimsuits in the back of our blue Volvo station wagon, because the beach was always where we wanted to be. She was deft with the umbrella and blankets, setting them up while she shooed the three of us into the sea. We'd stay in the water until we were starving, scanning the beach for the sun-faded coral-and-white umbrella, the only landmark that would lead us back to Maman. Wiping saltwater from our eyes, we beelined to her. Somehow, Maman always knew exactly what would taste best when we emerged: Persian cucumbers topped with sheep's milk feta cheese rolled together in lavash bread. We chased the sandwiches with handfuls of ice-cold grapes or wedges of watermelon to quench our thirst. That snack, eaten while my curls dripped with seawater and salt crust formed on my skin, always tasted so good. Without a doubt, the pleasures of the beach added to the magic of the experience, but it wasn't until many years later, working at Chez Panisse, that I understood why those bites had been so perfect from a culinary point of view. While bussing tables during the first year I worked at Chez Panisse, the closest I usually got to the food was at tasters, when the cooks made each dish for the chef to critique before service. With a menu that changed daily, the chef needed tasters to ensure that his or her vision was realized. Everything had to be just right. The cooks would tinker and adjust until satisfied; then they'd hand over the dishes to the floor staff to taste. On the tiny back porch, a dozen of us would hover over the plates, passing them around until we'd all had a bite of everything. It was there that I first tasted crisp deep-fried quail, tender salmon grilled in a fig leaf, and buttermilk panna cotta with fragrant wild strawberries. Often, the powerful flavors would haunt me throughout my shift. Once I developed culinary aspirations, Chris Lee, the chef who'd eventually take me under his wing, suggested that I pay less attention to what was happening on the porch during tasters, and more to what was happening in the kitchen. The language the chefs used, how they knew when something was right--these were clues about how to become a better cook. Most often, when a dish fell flat, the answer lay in adjusting the salt. Sometimes it was in the form of salt crystals, but other times it meant a grating of cheese, some pounded anchovies, a few olives, or a sprinkling of capers. I began to see that there is no better guide in the kitchen than thoughtful tasting, and that nothing is more important to taste thoughtfully for than salt. One day the following year, as a young cook in the prep kitchen, I was tasked with cooking polenta. I'd tasted polenta only once before coming to Chez Panisse, and I wasn't a fan. Precooked and wrapped in plastic like a roll of cookie dough, it was flavorless. But I'd promised myself that I would try everything at the restaurant at least once, and when I tasted polenta for the second time, I couldn't believe that something so creamy and complex could share a name with that flavorless tube of astronaut food. Milled from an heirloom variety of corn, each bite of the polenta at Chez Panisse tasted of sweetness and earth. I couldn't wait to cook some myself. Once the chef, Cal Peternell, talked me through the steps of making the polenta, I began cooking. Consumed by the fear of scorching and ruining the entire humongous pot--a mistake I had seen other cooks make--I stirred maniacally. After an hour and a half, I'd added in butter and Parmesan, just as Cal had instructed me. I brought him a spoonful of the creamy porridge to taste. At six foot four, Cal is a gentle giant with sandy-blond hair and the driest of wits. I looked expectantly up at him with equal parts respect and terror. He said, in his signature deadpan, "It needs more salt." Dutifully, I returned to the pot and sprinkled in a few grains of salt, treating them with the preciousness I might afford, say, gold leaf. I thought it tasted pretty good, so I returned to Cal with a spoonful of my newly adjusted polenta. Again, a moment's consideration was all he needed to know the seasoning was off. But now--to save himself the trouble and time, I imagine--he marched me back to the pot and added not one but three enormous palmfuls of kosher salt. The perfectionist in me was horrified. I had wanted so badly to do that polenta justice! The degree to which I'd been off was exponential. Three palmfuls! Cal grabbed spoons and together we tasted. Some indescribable transformation had occurred. The corn was somehow sweeter, the butter richer. All of the flavors were more pronounced. I'd been certain Cal had ruined the pot and turned my polenta into a salt lick, but no matter how I tried, the word salty did not apply to what I tasted. All I felt was a satisfying zing! with each mouthful. It was as if I'd been struck by lightning. It'd never occurred to me that salt was anything more than pepper's sidekick. But now, having experienced the transformative power of salt for myself, I wanted to learn how to get that zing! every time I cooked. I thought about all of the foods I'd loved to eat growing up--and that bite of seaside cucumber and feta, in particular. I realized then why it had tasted so good. It was properly seasoned, with salt. Excerpted from Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking by Samin Nosrat All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.