“Bam!” is his catch-phrase. Yes, a man many love to hate and just as many enjoy loving, Emeril Lagasse is a figure of iconic proportions. Not being of particular outright influence nor a deep inspiration to me, Emeril usually is some sort of sideline entertainment. I’ll watch his show if nothing else is on or when I’m lounging on my couch some lazy Saturday mornings. I do not seek out his schedule nor do I really care what he does within the world of culinary arts. However, I do have to give him his credit due for where I am today in relation to my forays into cooking and cheffery, if you will.

I recall the room that I sat in when I saw the episode that began my mind churning. My bed was a little too lumpy and soft at the same time. It wasn’t particularly comfy, but it served my butt well in the sitting. My collection of Star Wars action figures adorned three of the four walls (they’ve been long gone since…). There I sat, legs crossed, watching this newish chef on the Food Network. I thought that he was pretty amusing as well as animated, perhaps to a fault. Emeril kept mentioning that he was cooking Hilda’s favorite foods. Who the hell was Hilda? It would be months, maybe even a year before I figured out that Hilda was Emeril’s Ma. Either way, at this point I also had no idea that Emeril had a Portuguese (pwahchageese, as he pronounces it endearingly) background and that Hilda’s food is Portuguese food. A dim light did burn slowly at the mention of Portuguese food, even though I didn’t know what it meant exactly beyond the beef and chicken I consumed on Ilha Terceira. I wasn’t interested in the weird food that couldn’t crack my steak and potatoes shell.

It was during this episode, however, that I was introduced to caldo verde. Widely known as potato and kale soup, this Portuguese staple opened my eyes so wide when I saw Emeril construct it that I couldn’t hold myself back from making it myself. It looked absolutely scrumptious even though I’d never even noticed kale in produce sections nor had ever even heard of linguiça, which is an integral ingredient in the soup. I was determined to make this soup, but I had two problems: 1) I had no idea how the soup should taste and 2) everyone in my family at the time (there were three of us in 1998) was vegetarian. How would I manage to get around that?

Caldo Verde and Paposecos

Caldo Verde I reached a reasonable amount of success with my recipe over the last 9 or so years since viewing that definitive episode of Emeril Live. I made caldo verde strictly vegan for many years simply because it is easy to do. All my vegan friends appreciated me for it, too, considering it became a vegan favorite. The base of the soup is actually a garlic broth. It’s created by sautéeing a lot of garlic and a heavy pinch of pimento moida, otherwise known as crushed red pepper, in enough olive oil to cover the bottom of a stock pot. Before the garlic browns, I add sliced or cubed russett potatoes (peeled). After cooking the potatoes for no more than a minute, I add enough water to cover the potatoes by about an inch. As Emeril says, if you’re adding water instead of stock, season the water. Needless to say, a few healthy handsful of salt go in along with a good dash of freshly ground pepper. While the soup comes to a boil, I chop the kale. Normally I use green kale, but I’ll be changing this soon for reasons I’ll elaborate on shortly. I add the kale once the soup reaches boiling, and I simmer the entire soup until the potatoes are cooked through and tender. That’s it, aside from a final taste-testing to make sure the broth is seasoned enough to bring out the garlic flavor.

I’ve since changed the recipe only to add sliced linguiça (in individual bowls, so that the soup itself remains vegan) which, I think, adds a beautiful, complementary flavor to the overall soup. The marriage of garlic, potatoes, kale, and linguiça is one that cannot be described in its magnificence nor imitated in its simple complexity. There is a reason that this traditional soup has remained so for many generations.

Like I mentioned in my review of Portugalia, I found my caldo verde to be more flavorful than theirs, although I did like Portugalia’s offering. I haven’t found any distinct descriptions of the soup being less salty than mine, or any that state that it should be salty. So, in response, I’m leaving my seasoning as is, because it’s worked so far, why change, eh? However, as I did my research I came across two bits of aesthetic issues. First, the linguiça is supposed to be cut paper thin (as Portugalia did) before being added to the soup. As you can see in the photo, my slices are chunky. Also, the kale is supposed to be julienned into thin strips, which I don’t do because it’s difficult to do with green kale. Green kale is almost curly and the leaves do not fan from the stem very far, which makes julienning a clumsy act. Next time, I’ll look for other variations of kale with a broader leaf so that my soup will become truer in its authenticity.

Papasecos are small rolls that, when consumed within hours of baking, can produce the most heavenly bread-related experience a human can have. In fact, I wrote the following in a previous posting (“The Smell of Yeast”):

My first taste of handmade breads actually came during my time spent in the Azores, Portugal. I distinctly remember one of my first mornings in my Portuguese concrete house. I was startled awake by a loud, persistent beeping emanating from some miniscule European-styled van. I got up and rushed to the window to see only this van and a squat, richly tanned man with a thick, black mustache putting what looked like rolls in a plastic bag hanging from my neighbor’s doorknob. I wondered why in the world some people hung plastic bags from their knobs in the evening. Before tearing away and honking incessantly once again, I noticed through the passenger door a huge pile of rolls. They just sat there in the van; one gigantic pile of rolls. I was perplexed. That wasn’t Wonder Bread! What was that?

I inquired some coworkers of mine about the experience I had that morning. I found out that, yes, indeed, people did get fresh bread rolls delivered to their doors every morning. These rolls were called Paposecos and they were just amazing, fist sized rolls. I always woke up, sliced a couple rolls, and smeared butter on them. They would always still be oven warm and the butter would soften and melt through. They were unbelieveable. Getting them was a cinch, too. All that needed to be done was to hang a bag on the door and leave 100 escudos inside. That amounted to a whopping 60 cents for 10 delicious rolls.

About a year later, after a night out in Portuguese cafes and pubs, some friends and I decided to pay a visit to the local bakery that made these Papasecos (drunk young people tend to get the munchies). When we walked in, I was shocked by the amount of flour that seemed to blanket everything, even the barely clothed bread makers. There were trays of rising bread on rollaround racks. Bread peels hung, noticeably dried from the continued exposure to hot, open flame. The visual experience hit me with a solid punch, but its impact was light compared to the scent of the yeast contained within the Papasecos themselves. I will never forget that smell and how I began to equate it to real bread. I bought twenty rolls for myself.

PaposecosI’ve wanted desperately to experience the taste of paposecos again. I’ve wanted to smell the yeasty bouquet and savor the delicious, hand-made quality of these jewels. However, wishing doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get and I certainly haven’t gotten. I made another attempt at baking paposecos and failed once again. I’ve found a grand total of one recipe and it doesn’t seem like a good one. I attempted to change the recipe this time out to how I thought the recipe could give birth to the texture and flavor I was looking for, but it just wasn’t to be. My rolls were too doughy and the crust texture just was not right. I know the secret is in simplicity, but how simple? I’ll just have to keep searching and researching. A baked good that is this delicious often requires a certain amount of devotion and the patience of a monk, both attributes I think I might have. I hope.

As Rambo said, “Paposecos…..I’m comin’ to get you.”

Thus, with caldo verde, we have the humble beginnings of a burgeoning foodie later to become a lover…nay, an obsessor…over the foods of Iberia, and boy am I glad Emeril did that for me. Thanks to you and to your ma.