Big Tuna in Little Versailles

While still yucking it up at Chuck's last post, I am once again reminded of how polarized Chuck and my views are; especially when it comes to cooking food. Perhaps it is such dichotomy that makes this donkey such a wonderful beast, and perhaps our friendship such an interesting and fulfilling one. However... Chuck boasts about only ever needing salt and pepper, as if he went mining for jellybeans one day, and presto, discovered salt, and now shops it around like Willy Loman and so many shop-vacs. I too use salt, but I also am as little afraid of spices as I am of using color in a painting.

After a balcony smoke and mini-debate on the subject of salt, pepper, and the other "superflous" spices, as Chuck so referred to them,  I challenged him to a "tuna-off." Not to say that my tuna salad sandwich is a recipe I would tattoo on my ass, like a mulit-colored peace sign, or a Canadian flag or something, but there are a few tricks I've learned over the years that have rendered my tuna so good that I almost have to remember to even use bread at all.

It is true that Spartan living is desirable to one without even a pair of spoons, as is it generally required to hit the books while in prison, yet cooking for me has always provided a certain solice and break from the complexities of life. In this sense, Sands and I are like Anne Murray and Janice Joplin, and ne'er shall the two twain. Even the most hectic and difficult of recipes immediately puts me at ease. Cooking is probably the only thing I do consistently, as I am a lazy M'er F'er. I am sometimes even too lazy to buy cigarettes, and I've often said that this may be my one hope in someday quitting the weeds.

I will say that my tuna salad recipe takes about the same time as Chuck's to make; but it is a different animal altogether. You might say that if our respective tuna salads were robots, then Chuck's would be the the old and battered R2-D2 knock-off called B.O.B. in the movie The Black Hole, while mine would most certainly be a less gay version of C3PO.

There is a town in the film Wild At Heart, called Big Tuna. In a sketchy little bungalow, we meet a menacing and foul-toothed villain named Bobby Peru. It is in this home you will find a cubby hole behind a draping red David Lynchian velvet moo-moo. Pull back the folds of drapery, and you will find a dwarf reciting a secret recipe backwards....His last words, ".eciohc si anut sihT"

Kinger's Big Tuna

prep time: 5 minutes (provided you own more than just chilled beers)

1 can tuna (drain oil, put in bowl)
1 clove garlic (minced)
1/4 white onion (minced)
1 green onion (chopped)
2 tbsp. mayonaisse
1 lemon (juiced)
1 tsp. sea salt
1 tbsp. cracked pepper
1 tbsp. pickle juice
1/2 tsp. dijon mustard
1/2 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. paprika

mix and put on bread and eat on plate.

The Spartan Tuna Sandwich

I woke up yesterday in a foul mood. My lack of exercise over the past year has left me feeling like a bloated slug. As I sipped my morning coffee, I determined to end this extended period of immobility and regain my former Spartan glory. I felt it would be too humiliating to head to the pool and gas out after ten slug-like lengths, so I opted for a more military regime of training that I could perform in the privacy of my own home. I made it through about five minutes of jumping jacks, twenty or so sit-ups and a few girl-style push-ups on my knees. That was it, I was done, the initial rush of euphoria at raising a sweat, soon shifted to a dull nausea. But underneath the nausea was the intense hunger of a long-dormant warrior. I felt like a grizzly that had just emerged from hibernation. I needed food. None of my usual lunchtime options appealed to me. I just couldn't do another greasy bowl of noodles, nor would I be satisfied with some poor excuse for a sandwich. I knew at once what I had to have. I needed a proper tuna sandwich--the tuna sandwich I have honed and perfected over decades.

You may assume that someone with the audacity to write a food blog would have a spacious kitchen decked out with all manner of the latest and finest modern accoutrements. You may imagine that I host grand dinner parties, whipping off a bouillabaisse with lobster tarts at the drop of a hat. You would be wrong. While I may have lost my Spartan physique, I have most definitely maintained my spartan manner of living. In a bid to reduce the complexity of my life, I have tried to own as few things as possible. I live in a bachelor suite and my kitchen consists of one sink, one gas burner, and a half-sized fridge. In the past year I have cooked exactly nothing. I own one kettle, one knife, one bowl, two cups (one for whiskey, one for tea), and a few sets of wooden chopsticks (for when they forget to throw them in the takeout bag). Basically the only thing that has entered my fridge is Asahi silver. So to produce the tuna sandwich of my dreams, I had to start from scratch. Not only did I need to buy the fish, mayo, lemons, celery, onion, lettuce and bread; I also had to produce a few tools to perform the operation. I am now the proud owner of a fork, a can opener, and a mixing bowl. I cleaned off the top of my fridge for some necessary prep space and set to work. I couldn't have been happier with the results.


The Spartan Tuna Sandwich


Prep time 5 minutes


Ingredients:
1 can solid white tuna in water

1 celery stalk
1 head baby romaine lettuce
1 jar Hellman's Mayo
1 lemon

1 white onion
1 small fresh baguette





Drain the can of tuna and throw it in a bowl. Cut the celery stalk, first lengthwise with five or six cuts, then chop finely until you've produced a small handful. Eat the remaining celery on the spot. Throw two generous forkfuls of mayo into the bowl (two heaping tablespoons). The flaw of many tuna salads is an inadequate amount of mayo and a resulting dryness. Cut the lemon in two unequal pieces about 60/40. Take the seedless small half, and squeeze all of the juice into the bowl. Mix the contents of the bowl with a fork until there are no large chunks of fish. Cut the onion in half and slice off two razor thin slices. (Whereas Goodfellas had us believing garlic should be cut in such a manner, the opposite is in fact true. Garlic should be cut relatively chunky. To quote Tony Shalhoub from the great Italian food film Big Night "you cut it too small! you no taste!!" Raw white onion is the ingredient deserving of thin slicing. Cutting it wafer-thin allows it to sweat and sweeten without cooking.) Cut the baguette in half. Spread the tuna salad on the bread--not to much and not too little. You need enough tuna to compete with the girth of the baguette, but the last things you want is tuna squeezing out the ends of the sandwich as you eat. Lay on the onion, separate it into rings and spread it evenly over the tuna salad. Throw on 5 or 6 leaves of the romaine, not just one or two. You need to feel the crunch and freshness of the veg. Close the sandwich, squish it down a bit, and enjoy. I would normally have added salt and pepper to the mix but I don't happen to own these spices and I forgot to buy them. Nonetheless, I was surprised to find nothing lacking in the spiceless version.



Variations of this standard can use green pepper mixed with or in place of the celery. A generous amount of chopped parsley is a good substitute for romaine. Toss in a few capers for some nice salty hits of flavour. Proper sour pickles in brine can also add something nice to the mix, throw on a slice or chop finely into the mix, but if you add slices hold the lettuce and switch to rye bread.



I should add that I believe the tuna melt is a farce. Cheese should go nowhere near tuna. The same goes for tomato. The fish is simply happier without this unnecessary and uncomplimentary filler.