Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

“There, done!
A Petite Loco Moco Bowl!
*Loco Moco is traditional Hawaiian fare of hamburger and fried egg over rice.*
"Wow, that looks super yummy!"
"Huh. Loco Moco at a buffet? How interesting!
Ooh, hot!
The egg has been coddled to the perfect tenderness...
... and it melds beautifully with the powerful taste of the hamburger made from ground rib roast!
Add to that the mild, fluffy rice to tie it all together and it fills the mouth with deliciousness...
It's a dish that brings out the strength in you with every bite!
Not only that, typical Loco Moco is covered with beef gravy...
... but you've used a vinaigrette instead!
The tangy lightness of the white-wine vinegar in the vinaigrette wonderfully accentuates the richness of the egg yolk and the juiciness of the meat.”
― Yuto Tsukuda, ʳꪤΥ½©`¥Þ 5 [Shokugeki no Souma 5]

“For iron and pep, I wanted to make a cold lentil salad with a zingy orange-ginger vinaigrette, handfuls of chopped herbs, and slices of white peach. (The purple-green Puy lentils, more common than the orange ones in France, just seemed too dark for a summer salad.) After unpacking half the kitchen while standing, against my better judgement, on a kitchen chair, I ended up not with orange lentils, but with a bag of yellow split peas. That would have to do.
The split peas had been hiding up there for a while--- I'm pretty sure I bought them after a trip to Puglia, where we were served warm split-pea puree drizzled with wonderful glass-green olive oil and a grind of fresh pepper. Still hankering after a cold salad, I tried cooking the dried peas al dente, as I would the lentils, but a half hour later, where the lentils would have been perfect, the split peas were a chalky, starchy mess. I decided to boil on past defeat and transform my salad into the silky puree I'd eaten with such gusto in Italy.
When the peas were sweet and tender and the liquid almost absorbed, I got out the power tools. I'm deeply attached to my hand blender--- the dainty equivalent of a serial killer's obsession with chain saws. The orange-ginger vinaigrette was already made, so I dumped it in. The recipe's necessary dose of olive oil would have some lively company.
The result was a warm, golden puree with just enough citrus to deviate from the classic. I toasted some pain Poil?ne, slathered the bread with the puree, and chopped some dill. My tartines were still lacking a bit of sunshine, so I placed a slice of white peach on top.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“There's no messing with perfection. (Okay, a little messing, just for fun.) A few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil, and a sprig or two of purple basil. Sliced and layered in a white ceramic dish, the tomatoes often match the hues of the local sunsets--- reds and golds, yellows and pinks. If there were such a thing in our house as "too pretty to eat," this would be it. Thankfully, there's not.
If I'm not exactly cooking, I have done some impromptu matchmaking: baby tomatoes with smoked mozzarella, red onions, fennel, and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato with a local sheep's milk cheese and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with pale green artichoke puree and slivers of Parmesan. I constructed the whole thing to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro:
Millefeuille de tomate proven?ale, tapenade d'artichaut et coppa de parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade, sauce aigre douce aux abricots.
And of course, since this is a snooty Parisian bistro and half their clientele are Russian businessmen, the English translation would be printed just below:
Tomato napoleon of artichoke tapenade and aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on a bed of mixed greens with sweet-and-sour apricot vinaigrette.
The sauce abricot was a happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since I didn't realize my mistake until it was at the bottom of the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with Dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice--- much sweeter than a French vinaigrette, more like an American-style honey Dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because, believe it or not, Parisian bistros love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris in the past five years will note the rise of le Tchizzberger. (That's bistro for "cheeseburger.")
I'm moderate in my use of social media, but I can't stop taking pictures of the tomatoes. Close up, I've taken to snapping endless photos of the voluptuously rounded globes. I rejoice in the mingling of olive oil and purply-red flesh. Basil leaves rest like the strategically placed tassels of high-end strippers. Crystals of sea salt catch the afternoon sun like rhinestones under the glaring lights of the Folies Berg¨¨re. I may have invented a whole new type of food photography: tomato porn.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes