A Vegan Called Bacon

Good gluten meat is great.  In China they’ve been doing it for centuries (I’ve described elsewhere the variety we encountered there) .  My theory is that to really push the art of faux meat forward in the West, we need to learn and translate their knowledge on the subject. Bryanna Clark Grogan’s Authentic Chinese Cuisine (one of my favourite cook books) does a pretty good job, but there’s still a long way to go before this kind of silly, fun nonsense is possible:

The strangest faux meat I've ever seen: mock pigeon

Meanwhile, it seems to me that most progress in the art of cooking with gluten that I read about is largely won at random.  Steam it for 20 minutes or 40 minutes?  Bake it for 60 or 120 minutes?  At 300F or 375F?  Why?  I’m confused!

I’ve spent a while reviewing the most popular recipes online, and have compiled a list of possible variations based on these. It’s ambitious, but I want to find out what really makes a difference to the texture of that wonderful, wierd, chewy stuff we call seitan.  And in the process, I’ve gathered about a million different styles and opinions about making it.

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When I was little, my favourite soup was my grandma’s "Bin Soup".  Bin Soup is made with leftovers that you might otherwise throw out. 

Ever since I started working from home, I’ve been on some sort of soup frenzy during my lunch breaks (I actually work in the kitchen, which is a bit dangerous).  Usually, Bin Soup means a slightly floppy old carrot, a sad, wizened potato, and a handful of lentils, chucked in a pan and simmered in between checking out blogs and emails.  The furthest I’ve ever taken the concept is this dodgy-looking gloop, which was an entire plateful of the previous night’s dinner, blended; surely the most bizarre Bin Soup ever made.

It’s pilaf rice, roasted vegetables (including garlic), cauliflower "cheese" sauce, and a garlic/lemon/tahini dressing (the roses are just there for decoration, but they might as well have gone in too).

It could definitely have done with a bit more water, as you can see.  But oddly enough, it tasted pretty good. 

I suppose if I’m going to take this to its absolute logical conclusion I’m going to have to start using an actual bin.

How fair and how pleasant art thou, O Marmite, for delights:

I can’t imagine life without Marmite. When I was away from the UK for a year, I took enough supplies of Marmite to last me the whole time.  Marmite is a peculiarly British shibboleth.  I’d produce it at breakfast, people would ask what it was, I would give them a taste, and usually, they would recoil in horror.

For the uninitiated: Marmite is dark, dark brown; sticky like treacle; and tastes mainly of salt, with spices and yeastiness thrown in.  It’s also full of Vitamin B12, that Achilles Heel of vegan nutrition.

Here’s what I consider the correct way of eating Marmite:

• Bread selection.  Either a fairly thinly sliced, nutty brown bread, or a thickly sliced, fresh white loaf.
• Toasting.  The level of browning needs to be moderately high, to a medium leather colour.  We want the toast to be crispy on the outside, but still a little moist on the inside.
  
• Initial cooling.  Wait for about 10 seconds before you start spreading, holding the toast vertically so that it doesn’t accumulate moisture as the steam from the toast condenses on a plate.  We wait a short while to ensure that some of the butter doesn’t melt.
• Buttering.  Fairly generous amounts of your favourite vegan butter substitute.  Allow the butter to melt with the toast still held away from the plate.  We want plenty of grease to melt into the toast, but we want some of it to remain on the surface, where it will mix with the Marmite.  I usually have it like this, but it’s also good with a more generous amount of spread:
  
• Marmite application.  I prefer a generous hazelnut-sized knob of Marmite, spread evenly across the toast.  However, many people prefer about half this amount.
• Consumption.  The cooling process should not have advanced too far.  The toast should still be warm.  Eat fairly quickly, but savouring every mouthful.

The taste experience of Marmite is an intense journey.  I propose a standard Six Step Marmite Tasting Model for appreciating the process:

1. Insertion into mouth.  Before you bite it, you should feel the roughness of the bottom surface of the toast on your tongue. 
2. First bite. The bite should be crispy. 
3. Initial mastication.  The first chew should release warm "butter" in a gentle burst, with a hint of Marmite.  As the three ingredients blend in your mouth, the salty and spicy flavours of the Marmite taste dominate, providing the initial intense flavour burst that deters so many initiates. 
4. Pre-swallow.  Towards the end of the mouthful, the Marmite and spread tastes fade and the wheaty, yeastiness of the toasted bread dominates. 
5. Swallow. The bolus that has formed in your mouth should ideally still have a definite rough texture, which pleasantly and gently tickles the back of your throat as it passes.
6. Finish. The finish, which can last a good 20 minutes, is once again led by the Marmite, which has lost it saltiness and provides a lingering, yeasty taste with notes of celery, cloves, and tamarind.

Now I’m going to make another slice.

(marmite jar picture courtesy of ajbeanster)