I’ve been obsessing about Grant Achatz’s exploding ravioli
for several months now; ever since I first read about it in the Food and
Wine article. It comprised the meal he served to win his position at Trio. I loved the idea: a ravioli that behaves like Freshen Up gum, providing a liquid mouthful as one bites into it.
His truffle ravioli was a staple on Trio’s menu during his tenure.
Some people count sheep to get to sleep. I think about how foods are made and how tastes go together. How to make a liquid filled ravioli rocked me to bed for the better part of a month.
It fascinated me. Not just how to fill it with liquid, but also how to cook it. Was it steamed? Boiled? Was the pasta pre-cooked and sealed afterwards? One particular method that ran for a few
weeks in my head (I usually fall asleep very quickly so it takes me a long time
to go through technique in my head) was to inject the liquid
into the center, then seal the still soft dough and drop that into boiling
water. I worked through variations of raw vs cooked pasta to be filled, and what kind of needle to use. The ginormous needle in the kitchen drawer used for putting elephants to sleep (normally pulled out for use on a turkey during Thanksgiving) seemed too large to fulfill my purposes. But where the hell was I going to get a hypodermic needle? The more I though about it, the more outlandish the idea became. It seemed incredibly time
consuming and not elegant enough a solution. I figured that whatever Achatz was doing, it had to involve
style. After all, as his former
boss, Thomas Keller was fond of noting, “It’s all about finesse.”
I spent countless hours checking out food sites and googling
“exploding ravioli,” and “liquid ravioli.” What I came up with were lots of articles on Achatz’s
ravioli and his spiritual mentor, Ferran Adria, who was doing a turn as Mr. Peabody in the
kitchen. There were no recipes (I
actually thought there might be!) and no articles that gave me a clue as to how
to proceed.
What I really wanted to make was a ravioli that exploded
with lobster broth; one of my favorite foods.
I talked (obsessed) about the concept with my friend Greg
who said, “You know, it’s sounds like xiao long bao. It’s a Chinese dumpling that looks like a little steamed bun
and you have to eat it in one bite because it’s filled with liquid and meat.”
Okay, I thought; that’s a start. So I went and began checking recipes for xiao long bao, which required
making a thick paste of pork filling, wrapping it in a wonton wrapper, and
steaming it. I wasn’t convinced this was the right answer but I thought, okay,
I’m halfway there. What troubled
me was that xiao long bao required a meat paste. I wanted my exploding lobster ravioli to be filled with
broth; period. Nothing to
distract the flavor.
Greg and I were chatting online at work (it helps us to look
officious and busy) not too long after I found the xiao long bao recipe. I was convinced the ravioli was cooked
the way all fresh pasta is cooked;in salted boiling water, and not
steamed. Thus, I was pretty sure
that the ravioli had to have the liquid filling inside before it was
boiled. Greg asked me how I was
going to melt the filling; and in the phrasing of that question, I
finally connected the dots. The
answer had to be something that started out as a solid prior to cooking, then
became liquid when it came in contact with heat. It had to be a gelée. And from there, it all made sense. That night, I actually kept myself awake running through the mechanics
of how the ravioli could be made with the lobster gelée.
As it turned out, the exquisite Pim, of the not-to-be-missed-food-blog
Chez Pim, had eaten at Trio and
it was while I was happily engaged in reading through her blog that I found her
write up on Trio. Achatz cooked
for her and it was her description of xiao long bao that confirmed my
direction.
In a nutshell, the ravioli is composed of a few basic
steps. The first step is to make
the stock. The second is to add
gelatin to the stock and wait until you have a savory Jello (which essentially,
it is). The third is to make the
pasta, add the gelée to the center, seal and then boil for about 30-45 seconds
(long enough for the ravioli to cook).
Being the naturally insane person that I am, I decided to
debut my exploding lobster ravioli for a wine dinner tonight with friends. The only trial run was at midnight last
night when I made a few to test the theory and to check textures. The first one was a joyous occasion; the gelée melted on cue and I had a mouthful of liquid stock. The only problem was, the pasta was too chewy. Hubby agreed. He suggested adding a chunk of lobster meat to the ravioli. I tried that,
too, but we both agreed at that with the lobster being chewy and the pasta being chewy, the broth was incidental.
“Why don’t you make it with lobster and ricotta?” he
suggested. I ignored him, too
distracted to point out that ricotta cheese wasn’t going to explode in anyone’s
mouth (and if it did, I had done something seriously wrong). “Or make the pasta thinner.”
Eureka. These are the moments I think about when his shedding his clothes on the
floor like a little snake and leaving dishes in the sink drive me to despair
and partial homicidal tendencies. These are the moments that elevate being married to him to a higher
level of existential joy. These
are the moments that make me forgive him for being a man.
Because I’m insane, I decided to call it a night and figured
I’d go for broke at dinner the next night. I already knew the mechanics worked. I just needed to refine the texture.
Fast forward to this afternoon. Two hours before my guests (eight of them) were due to
arrive, I pulled out the dough I’d made the night before and rolled the pasta
through progressively thinner settings until I had it on the thinnest
setting. I grabbed the lobster
gelée and made a batch of ravioli, cutting them into circles and filling them
with gelée cut with the smallest round cutter. Lance and Joetta came first and as always, I love their
willingness to be my guinea pigs. I popped four ravioli into boiling water and asked them and Hubby to try
a bite. Hubby was right: the thinner dough allowed the broth to
star in the show and not take best supporting actor role.
I served it for dinner but made a critical mistake: instead of letting the ravioli stand on
its own, I covered it with a sauce, so the exploding ravioli was actually lost. Sigh. All that down the drain because I failed to obey the basic covenant of food: keep it simple. It would have been better served with a light touch of olive oil and some grated Parmagiano. And I think next time I’ll add tomato paste to the dough for the color and the complimentary flavor. But at least I know now. And better yet, I know how to make it!
The only problem is finding something else to occupy me at
night now so I can sleep.
