Salsa de chipotle
The table sauce made from those same smoked chiles.
Pantry · Page 5
Page 5 of 11 — more of the working pantry.
247 named jars, 11 short pages — so the first paint stays light.
The table sauce made from those same smoked chiles.
Thin, fierce red salsa from árbol — taqueria heat in a bottle or a blender.
Chile, lime, and salt in a shaker — fruit, cucumber, and beer all asking for the same dust.
Argentine green sauce: parsley, oregano, garlic, vinegar, and oil — the steak's other half.
Mexican green sauce: tomatillo, chile, cilantro — raw or roasted, never bottled parsley.
Catalan garlic and oil, pounded until it stands — mayonnaise is a cousin, not the same.
Lemon zest, garlic, and parsley — the last snowfall on an ossobuco.
A cold herb-and-pickle sauce German and French tables still write by name.
The red marinade dust of a tandoor: chile, cumin, and the color of a celebration.
The blend the books still call Nihari masala — a working jar, not a garnish word.
The blend the books still call Chole masala — a working jar, not a garnish word.
The Chinese star that makes a roast smell like a temple and a street stall in the same breath.
Seven flavors shaken over noodles: chile, sanshō, orange peel, sesame, nori, and heat you can see.
German Christmas in a spoon: cinnamon, clove, coriander, and the Nuremberg bakery air.
Persian warmth with a rose in it — the rice-and-stew perfume of an Iranian kitchen.
Yemen's two blends in one name: a soup spice and a coffee spice, both warm, both necessary.
Egypt's crushed picnic: hazelnut or chickpea, sesame, coriander, cumin, and oil-soaked bread.
Green fire from Yemen — cilantro, chile, cardamom — now at home on falafel and grilled fish.
The frozen or jarred sunshine of Peruvian sauces — fruit and medium heat.
Dark Peruvian chile paste for adobo, anticucho, and a quieter pot.
Allspice and Scotch bonnet, thyme and smoke: Jamaica in a rub.
Celery seed, paprika, and bay — the Chesapeake tin that seasons a whole coastline.
Louisiana heat for a black-iron pan: paprika, cayenne, garlic, and the holy trinity waiting.
New Orleans in a jar — more herb than Cajun, still ready for shrimp and rice.