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The World's Best Butter

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PostPosted: Tue Jul 30, 2019 12:33 am    Post subject: The World's Best Butter Reply with quote

Is the World’s Best Butter Worth 50 Dollars a Pound?

Alex Halberstadt scores a bag of the creamiest, most coveted stuff on earth and ponders a question: can you put a price tag on outstanding dairy?

Saveur | Alex Halberstadt

A hunk of Diane St. Clair's prized Animal Farm butter made in Orwell, Vermont.

If you've never been in the presence of a day-old calf, they happen to be disconcertingly large. Recently I followed one—the color and size of a golden retriever—as it stumbled around Diane St. Clair's barn, bleating loudly. Rain pounded on the roof, my boots were spattered with mud, and my neck ached after a five-hour drive. But it hardly mattered. I'd come to this sparsely populated corner of western Vermont to taste the country's most sought-after butter.

In a tiny creamery just off the barn, St. Clair reached into a refrigerator and took out a pound of her product—four dandelion-yellow balls in a large Ziploc bag. A former New Yorker with no experience in food production, she began making butter almost by accident, after buying a pair of Jersey cows. Wanting an expert opinion, she mailed unsolicited samples to Thomas Keller; he called back to say he wanted to buy all of it, and eventually asked her to acquire more Jerseys. As of 2017, outside several fine-dining restaurants, St. Clair's Animal Farm butter is only available once a year at the Middlebury Natural Food Co-op and at Saxelby Cheesemongers in New York. The butter comes in the same Ziploc bag, costs $50 a pound, and sells out within hours.

For most of my life I've been preoccupied with butter. Of course there are those culinary Bartlebys who believe it to be nothing more than a baking ingredient or, worse, a condiment. Nutritionists continue to dispute its merits. Oh, I could tell you that Tibetans make it into sacred sculptures and the ancient Finns were buried alongside barrels of it, but I won't. I will tell you, though, that for diehards like me, butter is the purpose of mashed potatoes, scones, and summer corn, the reason that bread exists, the very fulcrum of eating. What moves me about butter is that unlike cheese or pastry, its essence isn't confected but comes directly from the land. Elaine Khosrova, the author of Butter: A Rich History, described it to me as "a pure presentation of man, land, and beast." Like oysters and wine, it's one of the perks of being born on this planet.

My obsession with butter began among identical rows of tenements on the outskirts of Moscow where I grew up in the late 1970s. The groceries in our sparsely populated supermarket aisles ranged from unexciting to barely edible; one of the few exceptions was the fresh rye bread sold every morning in bakeries across the city, especially the dense, chocolate-hued loaves topped with coriander called Borodinsky. Naturally, they required butter. This became the best part of my midday meals, eaten in the school cafeteria under portraits of jowly Politburo chiefs. The slightly sour bread was the foil for the Platonic butter of my memories that opened with bright, creamy sweetness and, after a tangy sour note, faded in a long, lightly nutty finish. The mouthfeel was firm and unctuous but never greasy.

Somehow, as an adult, I began to forget butter. I ate supermarket brands and assumed that my longing was a figment of childhood nostalgia. Then, several years ago, while in Reims, I tasted a butter that obliterated the memory of the very worthwhile Champagnes on the table. It was made by Jean-Yves Bordier in Brittany, and was not imported to the United States. But the experience of Bordier stayed with me. In time, it ignited a determination to recapture the taste I remembered.

Finding a stand-in for the bread of my childhood took no time at all. The crusty miche from Bien Cuit, a bakery near my home in Brooklyn, was a delicious substitute for the Borodinsky. But replicating the butter proved slippery and enigmatic. First, I visited New York's Russian-Jewish enclave, Brighton Beach, for several specimens made in the land of my birth. I found them in a store with smooth jazz on the speakers and the delightful name of Gourmanoff. Unfortunately, these items turned out to be mixtures of butter and vegetable oil with the texture of margarine. Premium and imported brands from the grocery store didn't approach the experience I remembered either. Most tasted waxy, grainy, or dull, with no discernible finish.

I knew it was time to get serious. So, several months ago, I delved into the surprisingly contentious thickets of butter connoisseurship. I wanted to understand what drove the most obsessed of its producers, and which criteria they prized. I ate more of it than might be medically advisable. I'd assumed I knew my butter, but here's what I learned: Sometimes the thing we love is the one we know least of all.

The further I waded into what makes for great butter, the less tractable my search became. Many aficionados insist that culturing—the extra step of allowing the cream to ferment before it's churned—is the key to deep flavor. Certainly the best cultured butters (sometimes labeled "European-style") possess a subtle tangy note that can add complexity, but the process does not assure a superior product. Some of the butters I enjoyed most happened to be of the uncultured, or the "sweet cream," variety.

Some brands tout fat content as the key to quality and print it prominently on their labels. In the U.S., federal regulations require butter to be at least 80 percent fat, a level some insist is too low. But to my surprise, several expensive high-fat butters tasted bland and oily. "As you ramp up fat content, you squeeze out more milk solids," explained Aaron Foster, owner of the Brooklyn specialty food shop Foster Sundry. "The fat itself is relatively mild, so you get richness at the expense of flavor."

Then there is the dilemma of salting. There are partisans on both sides; a lack of consensus exists even among the butter illuminati. Diane St. Clair doesn't make a salted variety. "I believe that the flavor shines through better without salt," she said. Grant Harrington of Ampersand Butter Culture in Oxfordshire, who furnishes some of London's top restaurants, considers the pink Himalayan salt he uses to be essential. I happen to side with St. Clair. Maybe it's only because the bureaucrats in charge of the Soviet Union's food production didn't believe in salting butter, but what palate isn't shaped by personal history?

Dandelion-yellow and uncommonly expensive, St. Clair's butter is served at Thomas Keller's restaurants and is only available once a year to consumers. Photo by Colin Clark.

I'd learned about Harrington online; butter nerds in the UK plotzed over his product. According to them, the soap-opera-handsome former chef, who toiled under Gordon Ramsay, practices his dark art while listening to the Wu Tang Clan. His butter isn't available in the U.S., but Harrington agreed to mail me an unsalted sample of his work. Some friends I roped into tasting it grew quiet and nodded soulfully—the stuff was stupendously rich, with unexpected briny notes of iodine and oysters. Harrington attributes the deep yellow color to the Jersey cows that produce the cream he uses. Jerseys give less milk than the more popular Holsteins—the black-and-white cows of children's books—but theirs is richer and darker because of the way they process the carotene in grass. This, my friends' faces seemed to say, was butter.

Harrington believes the key to a great butter lies in extreme culturing. “By fermenting the cream with a specific lactic bacteria that produces a blend of butyric acid and diacetyl—flavors our brains associate with butter—I aim to make it taste as buttery as possible," he said. He sources the bacteria from a lab in Scandinavia and ferments his cream for nearly a week.

At this point, I knew it was time to revisit Bordier. My beseeching emails and calls to Brittany went unheeded. I heard that an acquaintance had smuggled some home from France, but he sounded about as eager to share it as to volunteer for a root canal. And so it came to pass that a fellow butter zealot who works in Saveur's test kitchen knew someone helpful in Paris. A huge FedEx bill later, the airlift was complete.

I'm happy to report that the diminutive brick in the plain paper wrapper tasted as breathtaking as I remembered—a vast array of flavors and aromas blended into a seamless whole in the manner of a well-aged burgundy. After churning, Bordier's butter is kneaded in a 19th-century metal-and-teak contraption called a malaxeur (massager); this unusual extra step is the reason for its mouthfeel, as silky as foie gras. And then there's Bordier's uncommon balance of elegance and richness. No wonder the French phrase for making a prosperous living is faire son beurre.

By this time I'd spent too long in butter's thrall, and thinking about it passively at home was no longer an option. I'd read rapturous reports about St. Clair's butter but never tasted it. And so while the White Mountains blazed crimson and gold in mid October, I raced up Route 91 to see her.

After I met the 11 buff Jerseys grazing behind her 19th-century farmhouse, it became clear that for her they were not livestock but pets, or possibly oversize children. While talking in St. Clair's living room, which looks out onto her pasture, she fixed one cow with a worried stare. Her husband, Alan, a large-animal veterinarian, sat beside her. "Does she look upset to you?" St. Clair asked him.

Her butter was the most intense I'd tasted. It had a consistency reminiscent of great vanilla ice cream and a long, worrying finish. Like many artists, behind a nonchalant façade St. Clair happens to be competitive and proud, and alongside her butter she brought out a stick from a well-known Vermont creamery. Comparatively, it tasted like a votive candle. "There's no secret technique to doing this," she said. She believes that a good butter is nothing more or less than a reflection of its time and place, "a seasonal product that proudly proclaims where it was made." Butter churned in spring—when cows graze on new grass—has the deepest color and flavor. In autumn the cows consume hay as well as grass, making for a muted but richer product.

"I wanted to make a butter as close as I could get to what was produced before the advent of the modern creamery in the early 1900s," St. Clair told me. Though she affected the unflappable manner of a New England farmer, her eyes shone when she spoke about butter, a substance she's called "the elixir of the human race." I asked whether for her butter was an obsession.

"Milking every single day, twice a day?" she answered. "And when I'm not milking I'm separating, pasteurizing, churning, bottling buttermilk, moving fences, feeding cows, and making hay? I'd say it's an obsession or insanity." She paused for a moment, and then asked, "Is there a difference?"

Butter Loves...

Radish Leaves: Delicately spicy radish leaves allow the most royal of the fats to reign supreme. Spread butter over herbed crackers or thin slices of baguette, sprinkle with flaky sea salt, and crown with a fresh, de-stemmed springy leaf.

Wheat Bread: Nutty whole wheat breads bring out a premium butter's sweet flavors and creamy mouthfeel. Choose a fresh-baked loaf with a crusty brown exterior and a soft, fluffy crumb. Crunchy nuts and salty seeds are a plus.

Maple Syrup: Butter loves sugar, but rarely does it meet the maple variety outside of pancakes and waffles. Biscuits, toast, yeasty rolls, and sweet potatoes provide further occasion.

This post originally appeared on Saveur and was published March 14, 2017.
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PostPosted: Wed Sep 09, 2020 7:58 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

What Exactly Is Cream Cheese?

Grace Mannon Updated: Mar. 20, 2019

You probably have a brick or tub of cream cheese in your refrigerator right now, but you might not have any idea what makes it so creamy or why it's even considered cheese. Here's everything you need to know about your schmear.

You think you know cheese: cheddar, mozzarella parmesan. But what about cream cheese? It’s called cheese but doesn’t seem to quite compare with these others. Let’s get to the bottom of this and find out what is cream cheese.
So What Is It?

Turns out that despite not having a particularly savory reputation like Colby, Swiss or gouda, cream cheese is cheese. It’s a fresh cheese defined by the FDA as containing at least 33 percent fat with a moisture content of 55 percent or less. It’s soft, smooth and mild. This cheese is comparable in flavor and texture to mascarpone cheese. (This decadent dessert uses both!)

It came into popularity in the late 1800s and was produced mostly in Philadelphia—of course! While developed in the States, it’s consumed globally these days.
How Is Cream Cheese Made?

The recipe is fairly simple—lactic acid bacteria are added to cream (or sometimes a combination of milk and cream), and this causes the pH of the cream to decrease, which in turn makes it coagulate. To put it simply, it becomes separated into curds and whey. Then the whey is drained off, the curds are heated, stabilizers are added, and cream cheese is formed.

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Can You Make Cream Cheese at Home?

Yes! It’s actually quite simple to make a good replica of cream cheese at home; though some recipes require a starter culture, the only ingredients you need are cream, milk, an acid (like lemon juice or vinegar) and salt. The acid makes the dairy curdle, then the curds are strained from the whey and processed in a food processor until nice and creamy. Not only is the method easy, but it also lends itself to lots of customization—feel free to add herbs, spices, fruits, vegetables, or whatever floats your boat! This type of homemade cream cheese can last up to two weeks in the refrigerator, while most of your store-bought packs should be used within 10 days of opening.

How Can You Use Cream Cheese (Outside of Bagels and Cheesecake)?

Of course, cream cheese is used to top bagels and make cheesecake—here are some simple recipes to get you started! But you can use cream cheese to create all kinds of savory dips, spreads and cheeseballs. It also helps smooth out sauces and other dishes.

Whether you make your own or stick to the tried-and-true grocery store option, it’s a good idea to keep some cream cheese on hand at all times. You never know when an urge for that tangy, smooth dairy delight will strike.


Old-Fashioned Buttermilk Bar Donuts

They’re crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, and they make for a fabulous weekend baking project.

The Kitchn / Jessie Sheehan

I am an equal opportunity donut lover. I love them all, from the mass-produced to the artisanal. But if I had to pick a favorite, it would be the old-fashioned buttermilk bar, which boasts craggy edges and a glazed top that I can’t get enough of.

Buttermilk bars rose to popularity in Los Angeles-based mom-and-pop donut shops in the 1960s. They are still the top seller at many LA donut shops today, including Primo’s. Because I have yet to try one in LA, I did what I do best: I developed a recipe at home. The ones I’m sharing here are crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, and make for a fabulous weekend baking project, if I do say so myself.
3 Tips for Making Buttermilk Bars at Home

Buttermilk bars, as their name implies, are shaped into rectangles rather than circles — but otherwise, they’re pretty similar to classic old-fashioned donuts made with buttermilk. Here are some helpful tips for making them at home.

Use whatever type of sugar you have on hand. I like to make the dough with equal parts granulated and brown sugars, but you can use either all granulated sugar or all light brown sugar with equally successful results.
Be generous with the flour. Although the donut dough is very sticky, it can take some tough love, so don’t be afraid to generously flour your hands and the work surface to prevent it from sticking.
Use a fish spatula or a spider to transfer donuts to the oil. I find a fish spatula is the easiest tool for transferring the donuts to the oil and retrieving them, but many others prefer to use a spider. Use whatever frying utensil you are most comfortable working with.

Perhaps most importantly, don’t be too precious! These donuts are meant to be rustic, and no matter what shape they enter the oil in, they’re guaranteed to be delicious all the same.
Buttermilk Bar Donuts

Yield: Makes about 30 bars

Prep Time: 30 minutes

Cook Time: 45 minutes
For the donuts:

4 tablespoons (1/4 cup) unsalted butter
3 1/2 cups cake flour, plus more for dusting
2 3/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
3/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 large egg
3 large egg yolks
3/4 cup buttermilk
About 2 quarts vegetable oil, for deep frying

For the vanilla glaze:

2 cups powdered sugar, sifted if lumpy
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/4 cup boiling water


Make the donuts: Place 4 tablespoons unsalted butter in a small microwave-safe bowl. Microwave on HIGH until melted. Set aside to cool slightly.

Place 3 1/2 cups cake flour, 2 3/4 teaspoons baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda, 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt and 3/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg in a medium bowl and whisk to combine.

Place the melted butter, 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, and 1 tablespoon vanilla extract in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. (Alternatively, use a large bowl and electric handheld mixer.) Beat on medium speed until fluffy, scraping the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed, about 2 minutes.

Reduce the speed to low. Add 1 large egg and 3 large egg yolks one at a time, stopping and scraping down the bowl as needed. Add 3/4 cup buttermilk and mix until combined.

Add the dry ingredients all at once and mix just until a few streaks of flour remain. Remove the bowl and continue mixing by hand until there are no dry bits of flour. The dough will be quite sticky. Refrigerate at least 1 hour and up to overnight. The rest in the fridge makes the dough easier to work with: it remains sticky, but firms up considerably.

Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper. Heavily flour a work surface and your hands with cake flour. Transfer half of the dough to the work surface, and sprinkle it with flour. Pat the dough into a 3x24-inch rectangle with the long side facing you, adding more flour to the work surface as needed. The dough is extremely soft and sticky, so don’t be afraid to use as much flour as you need.

Use a floured bench scraper or butter knife to cut the rectangle into 1 1/2-inch wide bars, flouring underneath the bars, the work surface, and the bench scraper as you work. Once all the bars are cut, dip the bench scraper in flour and very gently press it down the center of each bar, making a slight indentation (this will give your donut the quintessential buttermilk bar look).

Using a brush, lightly brush the excess flour off the bars. Use a floured bench scraper or thin metal spatula to gently transfer each bar to one of the prepared sheets, flipping it over so that it is indentation-side down. Brush the excess flour from the other side of the bars. Refrigerate and repeat with shaping and cutting the remaining dough.

Fill a large, heavy pot or Dutch oven with at least 2 inches of vegetable oil. Heat the oil on medium-high heat until 350ºF, or a bit above (the temperature will drop when you add your donuts). Meanwhile, fit a wire rack over a baking sheet.

Remove the first tray of bars from the refrigerator. Frying in batches of 4 to 5 so as not to crowd the pot, use a thin metal spatula to carefully transfer the donuts into the hot oil. Fry until dark golden brown, about 1 minute per side. Carefully transfer the donuts to the rack with the spatula. Repeat frying the remaining donuts. Let cool to room temperature before glazing.

Make the glaze: Place 2 cups powdered sugar in a large bowl. Add 1 tablespoon vanilla extract and 1/4 cup boiling water and whisk until shiny and smooth. Dip a donut indentation-side down halfway into the glaze. Lift it up and allow the excess glaze to drip off. Return to the rack glazed-side up and repeat with the remaining donuts.

Make ahead: The donut dough can be made and refrigerated up to 24 hours before frying.

This post originally appeared on The Kitchn and was published June 2, 2020. This article is republished here with permission.
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