Tag: american

Oh, that little ubiquitous display in the produce section of the grocery store. You know exactly what I mean- the really expensive-seeming meat and cheese display, where markets display their largesse and where seemingly only the rich and epicurean seem to shop.

I've long lusted over this section, as it seems to have the most concentrated stink of adventure in the entire grocery. Seriously, even more than the cultural foods. On one weekend, our curiosity was so potent that we had to take the dive and grab ourselves a hefty chunk of diversity.

As Americans, we tend to be less curious about cheeses than our friends overseas. I'm guessing a few too many folks who watched Pepé Le Pew get mistaken for limburger as children grew up frightful about the entire variety cheese concept. Wake up, America. You're missing out.

In the center of the cracker tray above is a container of Greek-style hummus, a Middle-Eastern favorite made of garbanzo beans and tahini (which is essentially sesame-seed butter). Hummus is fantastic. If you're not eating it, you're missing out. This particular variety was strongly flavored of pepper, garlic, and lemon juice.

The triangular wedge on its own platter is Brie, a relatively familiar French cheese. The white coating on the outside is mold, but don't let that put you off- soft, spreadable Brie is fantastic with or without this part, but definitely has a bit more zest if you take it altogether. Brie is a cow's-milk cheese, and is nutty-flavored and delicious.

The other plate has a few pieces of summer sausage, as well as some folded pieces of Italian salami, cured in oil. Off these meats, we played a few different cheeses.

In staying with our American/British roots, there were some slices of hickory-smoked cheddar, probably the most familiar cheese in the States. Cheddar is named for the process by which it is made- stacking the cheeses until the bottom ones are pressed firm. As a result, it is a sturdy and strongly flavored cheese.

The small white-yellow strips of cheese are Gruyere, a Swiss cheese (but not 'the' Swiss cheese, which is known as Emmenthaler). Like Emmenthaler, it is a bit waxy, and is very delicately flavored- I was a bit put off by it, because the flavor was not apparent when combined with other ingredients.

Possibly not showing in the photo above were some slices of Havarti, a Danish cheese often impregnated with dill. This tasted almost exactly like Emmenthaler, but with a much more pleasing texture. It's enough to make me swear off the Swiss cheese for good.

Finally, there is a small container of goat's cheese, or chevre. This has a very strong flavor that is somewhat gamey; we ended up not eating very much of it. But I did use it later in the Greek night lamb recipe.

Don't let fear get you down. Eat the cheese. Learn to experiment. Live a little. You only get to do it once, after all.

Tonight, I'm doing lamb chops and tzatziki sauce. In fact, it's broiling while I type.

I started the tzatziki last night, draining some plain yogurt, grating a cucumber into it, and mixing in some dill, grated garlic, red wine vinegar, and pepper. It has been sitting in the fridge for a full day, but not without several inquisitive spoonfuls being borrowed...

Tonight, I mixed a stick of melted butter, some fresh thyme and mint, a couple squirts of dijon mustard, a quarter of an onion (chopped), some cayenne, and some black pepper and dill into a mess, then dipped the lamb chops in it and rolled them into breadcrumbs (pouring the rest of the mess in between them).

After broiling on both sides for five minutes apiece, I put a baguette from a local bakery on the bottom rack and turned the oven onto three-fifty. Give me a second to check on it...

Alright. The lamb is going to come out pretty soon; pictures (hopefully) at eleven.

...

Update: Rare is definitely the way to do lamb; it got barely any oven time after its broiling and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

The tzatziki had a little too much red wine vinegar; I'd suggest tasting it regularly and adding the vinegar (especially) at a slower pace. Remember that the tzatziki is going to be a bunch of separate flavors before it goes to the fridge, and taste accordingly.

Lamb is an interesting ingredient. It plays better with those obscure herbs in your spice rack than the standard American meats do; lamb with a little tzatziki is certainly a complex and wonderful experience.

Just a note: before tonight, I've had lamb three times and hated it each time.

Curse those fancy chefs.

You know who I mean. The ones who sort of offhandedly whip up some crazy roux and serve it with diminished flair by squeezing their thick, colorful pastes from what we suburbanites call ketchup and mustard squeezes. The ones who manage to generate two or three sauces for use on the same plate.

My first few experiments with roux, I have to say, were shameful. Sometimes I generated something blissful; other times, I'd end up with a pot full of flour porridge.

Was it the AP flour? Was it the temperature? Was there too much (or too little) whisk action? Actually, it was part flour and mostly temperature. But enough of that.

I doubt I'll ever be accepted into a French cuisine chat group, let alone hall of fame, but cornstarch is the simple American answer to a difficult task. Sources indicate that cornstarch thickens at low temperatures instead of high ones. Bah, I say. I don't do sauces over high heat anyways, for risk of scorching the butter, and I've never had a cornstarch sauce come out lumpy.

Oh, they say. But the roux. It will be marred by the flavor of cornstarch. Maybe it's because I'm a smoker, or maybe it's because old wives' tales start in the kitchen due to those chauvinistic simpler times- cornstarch sauces taste like whatever I put in them.

The technique: melt a stick of butter, or put in some tomato sauce, or chicken broth, or whatever you want to use as your base. Add cornstarch to your liquid [edit] very slowly, and in small portions. [thanks Savory] Whisk like the devil. Add seasoning. Presto- a sauce that tastes exactly like what you put into it, without lumps, without suffering, and without all that uncertainty that comes from novices attempting roux without the Necronomicons of chef-ery. Which is a word I just made up. Because I am an expert.

Let me tell you- any situation that calls for 'seasoning' is technically a sauce waiting to happen. And if you want to get all fancy and squirt designs all over your plate- well, that's your business, isn't it? Recent dinners here at Edible Unknown Research Center Zero (EURC-0) are simply blossoming with wonderful sauces. Live it. Love it. Accept it. The sauce commands you.

When Savory and I go on cooking binges, we tend not to mention that we each have a raging and private yen for the sheer art of complexity. Our reptilian epicurean mindsets require, as it were, a tremendous number of ingredients, sensitive temperature and timing, or at least a bit of showmanship before we consider ourselves as having truly lived up to the task of cooking something.

While I'm certain that if ever there were a recipe which required us to write a Unix shell script in time with our food, we'd be shuddering in (separate) orgasmic delight, there is something to be said for the simple. In fact, sometimes the simple is the most wonderful thing one can have.

Case and point: oven-roasted corn on the cob. I grew up in a family with both Southern American and German roots, and corn on the cob was something one boiled, slathered in butter, then consumed with those little pokey ceramic things suspending it like some sort of corn spit before our mouths. And of course, the butter ended up all over everything- kind of like inviting the Tasmanian Devil to an all-you-can-eat crab restaurant.

If you've got a gas broiler, you can come darn close to barbecue-level corn on the cob by:

1. Strip the corn on the cob of silk and husk.
2. Put half a stick of butter in the bottom of a pyrex baking dish, and set your broiler on high over it.
3. When the butter is melted, put in your corn on the cob (4 cobs).
4. Check every few minutes. When the top of the corn is dotted with roasted kernels in punch-card fashion, rotate your corn, grind on a little pepper, and sprinkle on a little salt.

Once the whole thing is pretty much roasted, you'll have the most amazing corn ever produced from an oven. In four ingredients.

Of course, now I need other methods to deplete my spice rack. Lest it grow, gain sentience, and claim sovereignty over my newly annexed kitchen. Gotta go.

While I'm still at the point where every bechamel has a fifty percent chance of turning into gruel, I can admit with some well-deserved selling-out shame that I can do French Toast just as well as anyone else.

With indeterminate origins shrouded in the mists of time, French Toast (known colloquially in some American regions as 'Fried Eggy Bread', to the sounds of every dead Frenchman spinning violently in his grave) is known by several names throughout the world, including Bombay Toast, arme riddere ('poor knights'), and the term en francais, pain perdu.

Regardless of its origin, I got up this morning determined to eat something other than cereal or pork chops in hot sauce, so I started poking through the pantry looking for things that I might have, at one point in time, heard of as a potential ingredient in french toast. Unfortunately, her Tartiness immediately sensed the twinging of directionless fumbling resonating from deep within my Y chromosome, and hauled out her favorite french toast recipe.

As I reluctantly set down the Clabber Girl (we might have had an interesting breakfast indeed) and perused the recipe, my inherent fiddliness blossomed into full-on transmogrification mode. I mean, the recipe she gave me had six ingredients. Six! I believe in simplicity for simplicity's sake as much as the next man, but this morning I was feeling much more Da Vinci than Kazimir Malevich, and ornery besides. I glanced longingly at the Clabber Girl. Her disturbingly large Victorian eyes seemed to be pleading with me to ignore the pragmatic whims of my wife and instead follow her down a psychedelic yellow brick road of chaos, pestilence, and creative breads.

Unfortunately, looking at the bread and thinking 'yellow brick' inspired in me an unsettling urge to return to simplicity.

In a Pyrex baking dish, I added the two eggs, mixed in brown sugar (take that, recipe), and mixed in the rest of the ingredients in old-school eyeballing fashion. Since it was French toast that I was making, I used half a stick of butter and made sure to scorch each piece slightly.

The result was delicious- but heavy. Brown sugar and butter with a particularly absorbent bread do indeed yellow bricks make. Though they were pleasantly crunchy in a waffle-like fashion, they weren't too sweet, and didn't mind being dusted with confectioner's sugar (I think it was confectioners sugar, but where did little miss Clabber go?), nor did they mind a little pure maple in the tradition of the great French Toast Eating Lumberjacks that used their mighty axes to pave the way to our modern landscape of McDonalds and california rolls. I only managed to eat one piece, but the other slices quickly disappeared due to guerilla action from the other family members. Let freedom ring.

Believe it or not, we at EU have a life similar to that of normal people. We learn, we laugh, we love, and we have thanksgiving dinner. As such, I have duly been appointed by the gods of thanksgiving cookery (hereafter known as injuns) to make sweet potatoes. I know what you bastards are all thinking, you're all thinking about how Teleolurian would look in a mini skirt. I mean, you're all thinking that potatoes are easy, you just boil, mash and marshmellow. Alas, this is the lazy american way of cooking. We practice the Zao Zo Zi Ha Ping Wong or the study of the eternal sunshine of the majestic yam.

First, young potatowan, we must select the right potatoes. The right potato has bright orange flesh with reddish skin. If you're not sure what color the flesh is by the look of the potato, go ahead and take a bite. No one will notice. I promise. If it is indeed orange. Congratulations! Place sweet potatoes into a vegetable bag (about 2 pounds worth). Some grocery stores have scales as to weigh the potatoes. The way these work is you sit on top of one, wait for a grocer to come around and scorn you, slap grocer with bag of potatoes and gauge his injuries. If he's still yelling at you (but slightly pissed off) then you do not in fact have enough potatoes. If he is unconscious, then you most likely have around 2 pounds. If he is dead, you probably want to take a few of the potatoes out, as you have too much. Also, you may want to stuff his lifeless corpse in the corn bin, otherwise by the time you get out of prison your potatoes will have gone bad and thanksgiving will have long been deemed an ancient tradition saluting the once proud indian tribes of North America. The next couple of things you'll need are Heavy whipping cream, bourbon, light brown sugar, sweet sassy molassy, and salt. For the whipping cream, you can visit your local farm and smack around a cow that weighs more than 500 pounds. Then milk. Also, you may want to pasteurize the milk. I'm not quite sure how to do that, but I'm sure it has something to do with Louis Pasteur III and some fairies. Everyone knows that you get Bourbon out of your loco hobos pocket, or your Uncle Henrys hand after he's long since passed out watching badminton. Or maybe it was football. Light brown sugar, well, I can't stop laughing about the whereabouts I was going to put here, so lets just say, you get it at the store. Sweet sassin molassin is a product of the sasquatch and is typically found around or near their dens. If you can't find a sasquatch den, you'll most likely have to omit this ingredient. (Edit: I've just learned you can buy this at the store too, ambiguously named "Molasses"). Oh, don't forget the salt. Since you're probably a homosapien you produce this wonderful seasoning.

To recap, the base ingredients for this dish are: * 1 3/4 to 2 pounds of sweet potatoes * 1/2 cup heavy cream * 1/4 cup bourbon whiskey * 3 tablespoons light brown sugar * 2 tablespoons molasses * 1/8 teaspoon salt

Now for the oh so wonderous topping of magical tastiness +2.

• 1/2 cup all purpose flour
• 1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper (you can use black, white is just prettier)
• one pinch dried thyme (not a handful. a PINCH)
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans (not to be confused with peacocks)
• 5 tablespoons butter, chilled and cut into eency weency cubes.

Now for the actual cookery/sorcery.

1. Preheat your oven/kiln/heating box/toaster oven to 350 degrees.
2. Place potatoes on a foil lined bakery sheet. (cookie sheet will do)
3. Bake until tender, and starting to ooze a syrup, also unicorns. This will take around an hour and 15 minutes, unless you live in Zimbabwe, in which case it will take 75 minutes. If you have mammoth potatoes (the ones that took over the earth there for a brief moment in 1992), then it may take a tad longer.
4. Remove from the oven and let sit until you can touch them without burning a whole in your pasty man flesh.
5. Cut a slit down each potato (not your wrist) and scoop the flesh into a large bowl. Be sure to cackle with glee otherwise the recipe will not come out right.
6. Add the cream, bourbon, brown sugar, molasses and salt, and use one of them new fangled mixing machines to beat the mixture until its as smooth as gator slaw in the springtime.
7. Pour into little casserole dish. Cover with foil so it doesnt go cold.

For the topping: 1. Mix all of the ingredients together thoroughly (except the butter!) in a small bowl. 2. Add the butter and work with your hands until a crumbly mass forms and calls you names. 3. spread evenly atop the potatoes, and bake until the top is nice and brown.

Serve! and hopefully people wont die!

(Note: nothing in here could kill anyone, except the sasquatch)

(Note #2: he wont hurt you because hes spending thanksgiving at my house)

(Note #3: I havent actually made this recipe. I just pulled it out of the nether regions of my brain because it sounds tastastic. I'll update with commentary on flavor later (subnote #1: After I stuff my gullet with turkey))

Zabaglione. It sounds like a post-modernistic WWII dictator running about the house screaming of Germans and meatballs. (note: I can make fun of Italians, because I am, in fact, Italian) But in reality is an Italian custard that is many times used as an appetizer or a component of many of the fabulous and artery assaulting desserts that make up Italian post meal cuisine. Notably, this is a side component of quite a few Tiramisu and Zuppa Inglese recipes. Although its not the real way you're supposed to make Tiramisu, just a faster way.

My personal favorite is to make this custard in ramekins and top with fresh berries, as a breakfast or dessert concoction. Of course, there are hundreds of ways to bastardize this custard, substituting Auslese or other German Eiswein, Sherries, or Ports for the Marsala. you can let your imagination run wild.

(Dammit. Every time I write an article I try to put as much schtick as I can into it, but it always inevitably falls back down to a hum drum cooking article. I could emulate tourrettes and just stick a random obscene word in the sentences somewhere I guess. Maybe I'll write a filter.)

Anyway, back to the custard at hand.

To make Zabaglione, one needs the following stuff from your local grocer (or, if you live in Vegas, your local 7-11):

• 5 egg yolks
• 1 whole egg
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup Marsala

Easy, no?

1. In a batter bowl, whisk the egg yolks and the egg together with the sugar, beating until it turns a lemony yellow color.
2. Whisk in the Marsala, until fully combined.
3. Microwave (?!) for 30 seconds.
4. Whisk
5. Repeat steps 3-4 until it is desired thickness.

But it has raw eggs! I'll die!

If your eggs aren't pasteurized then you just may. But if you're living somewhere that doesn't have pasteurized eggs, you may want to move. Or at least get checked out for tapeworms.

Microwave?! BLASPHEMY!

True, Microwaves are evil. They are the incarnate of Lazy Americans(tm) everywhere, and they usually botch things up like no tomorrow. However. This prevents you from having to make it the old fashioned way, using a double-boiler (or a glass bowl on top of a boiling pot of water, my favorite). You can still make it that way, just be careful it doesn't cook too fast, otherwise you'll have an omelette. And a nasty omelette at that.

It is dark here!

You and your custard have been eaten by a grue.

That about sums up Q&A. I hope I've enlightened you, the viewer, to a world not unlike that of custards. Perhaps someday we will be privy to a custard takeover and have to bow to custard, and when that day comes, you can say you helped birth the enslavement of the human race. Until then, custard will remain our friend as ...

GOOD EATS

swanky music plays

(GOOD EATS is copyrighted somewhere by Food Network or Alton Brown, and because I love them like family, I hope they don't get mad)

Go ahead. Use Google. Search for fried chicken. You'll find a plethora of articles that all tell you the same basic things. Everybody knows how to fry chicken. It's the next step on the evolutionary ladder above boiling water. The ability to fry chicken is what makes us BETTER than the most common bird on the planet, for goodness sakes. It's part of our genetic cerebral snide superiority- if we can eat it, we're better than it is. That's why people seek out alligator, bear, and shark meat in markets- the ability to eat something that has at some point eaten one of us makes us not only better than the animal, but the poor primate it managed to digest.

But I digress.

I'm not going to tell you how to fry chicken. It's more intuitive than the screwdriver. But there are certain things that should be part of your regular shopping list and they all make our ruthless domestication policies worthwhile.

1. BUY LARD. Or, if you're one of these health-conscious types, BUY SHORTENING. For the sake of the species, buy SOMETHING that is thick, greasy to the touch, white, and melts into a massive pool of chicken frying goodness. Any neighborhood is likely close to an ethnic or just-plain American store that sells pig kidney fat in huge blocks (love the Manteca). If nothing else, invest in a deep fryer (with which you can cook EVERYTHING) and some peanut oil. Culinary adventurers, buy ambergris. Shark fat. Clarified schmaltz for the ultimate one-upsmanship of the chicken. Or take a note from Fight Club (enough said).

2. Get something to bread chicken in. I use tupperware. Grandma used paper lunch bags. Dump in flour, breadcrumbs, and whatever you want- last night I used basil, thyme, cayenne, pepper, garlic salt, and anything else I could grab from the spice cabinet. Don't get the expensive spice jars full of old, tasteless stuff- buy the cheap little sacks on the sidekick-display at the end of the produce aisle. 99 cent cayenne goes in everything. Even a little cayenne and paprika will make it taste better without appreciably increasing the hotness factor (capsaicin pansy).

3. Have chicken on hand. I've been stalled from frying chicken several times just by not having it around. During Hobo Week, I buy the huge bags of frozen, genetically-engineered Elephant Whale Buffalo chicken breasts. Boneless and skinless = easy cutting. This is an economy based upon ease of attainment and use, people. Get your nearest livejournal self-inflicted injury specialist and a razor blade to cut the meat into strips if all else fails.

4. Insert chicken in choppy chunks into your mixed and shaken flour-crumb-goodness mixture. Raise temperature to medium (for shortening, which otherwise has a slight tendency to EXPLODE) or medium-high (for good old god-given lard) and let it boil into a puddle of clear, fatty goodness. Have a skillet lid, or at least another skillet. Burning fat hurts, which is why they used to dump it from crenellations onto erstwhile castle invaders.

5. Since not everybody appreciates spice like I do, I don't put crushed red pepper into the crumb mixture. Instead, I buy the bag of whole dried peppers and crush them in my fist into the heated lard. I am therefore genetically superior to the red pepper. Don't let the pinks crush the peppers for you- nothing says loving like the horrible imagined screams of chiles while you pulverize them in your opposable-thumb having fist (people without thumbs: you're still superior to them. The chiles aren't going to squeeze YOU into boiling lard).

At first, I was just pouring in the seeds; however, since I know that the heat actually comes from the chile's placenta (which coats the seeds), I just toss the whole mangled pepper corpse in.

And yes, I talk about corpses often while cooking. And eating.

Cook until meat stops being pink, then cover and jack that heat up to high (take THAT, shortening can warnings) so you get a mild scorch on your crumbs. Then reduce heat, flip chicken, and scorch it AGAIN.

Covering the skillet makes for juicier chicken. Minor scorch action makes for crispier outsides. You can do what you want to it- you're BETTER than chicken.

If we weren't meant to eat them, they wouldn't be made of meat.

Welcome back to Hobo Fortnight at Edible Unknown, where I'll put down my tin-can soups and edible whatnottery until such time as my pile of paychecks become fungible. Tonight, I'll be using the metaphysical SCIENCE!! of alchemy and antimatter.

Now, every red-blooded American child has known one fact since their vagrant mother sent them a cheap Radio Shack science kit (with magnets!!) in the mail: opposites attract. And, in so doing, they change the fundamental properties of the whole. Riddle me this. Hydrogen is 'splodey. So is oxygen. Together, they make water, which under most situations won't ignite no matter how many times you hold a blowtorch to it. So, in the quest to drink myself into a coma until such time as I can afford to buy the food that makes this site exist, can several horrible tasting things that have lurked in the fridge since the ancient ones first founded their aquatic R'lyeh underneath the cruel tides somehow... synergize into something wonderful and tasty? Especially if it contains alcohol? In the name of American Science, I was willing to find out.

Now, the ancient Aztecs did this. They took bitter cocoa, mixed it with pepper, and made a drink. Of course, nobody knows if it was tasty, but I bet anyone who complained turned into the next 'virgin' crop sacrifice. Here's what I had in the fridge that I was willing to sacrifice:

1. A twelve-pack of Vault Zero.

This was a mistake buy. Vault tastes like an energy drink; Vault Zero, which is presumably lacking in calories, fats, tars, nicotine, vitamins, and drinkability, tastes like an extremely diluted septic tank which has, through the miracle of years of decay, begun to produce its own internal bubbliness.

However, on the way home, Vitamin A (ever sensitive to my plight of not having booze to turn my Seroquel 1-2 into a knockout punch) told me that she had some flat Rockstar and vodka in a water bottle.

My interests were noticeably piqued.

Did I dare do it? Did I dare mix two energy drinks with booze? WOULD THE EDIBLE UNKNOWN KITCHEN BURN LIKE GOMORRAH AT THIS UNHOLY CONCOCTION?

Obviously, the perceptive reader can tell from my vomitous prose that the experiment has already taken place.

First, I sampled the mixture. I'm not sure what the origin of this rancid bile was, but at some point in time she'd come home reeking of distilled grain and managed to lose two bottles of liquor in my car (I discovered them today. Joy!)

Apparently, even running off of alcohol combustion, she wouldn't drink it. I don't blame her. The energy drink portion had somehow lost its spirit, soul and essence; it turned normally bitterharsh vodka into something mellow and thoroughly unpalatable, like regurgitated scotch.

In the interests of being a Patriotic Citizen, I forged on.

Upon an equal mixture (the Rockstar/Vodka, by my estimation, was about 70% vodka), I took a sip. Then I immediately poured in more of the R/V mixture, to get rid of the horrid taste of Vault Zero.

Now it's a sippin' whiskey.

UPDATE: I think I just found a chunk in my drink.

UPDATE: Upon closer examination, it was just a really weird bubble.

When one reflects on the banana as food, several key foods come to mind- banana bread, bananas foster, and the king of sundaes, the banana split. South of the United States, plantains are an important part of Cuban, Puerto Rican, and Latin American fare. Whatever the origins, bananas and plantains are far too versatile to be ignored in the kitchen.

Cavendish No More?

Picture a banana in your head. More likely than not, that mental image is of the Cavendish banana, a cultivar bred for durability (and not particularly for taste). The Cavendish is a polyploid breed- it has extra chromosomes in its genetic makeup, making the plant more durable. However, the Cavendish will most likely not be the most common banana in the near future.

In the 1950's, the most common banana export was the Gros Michel; however, a banana-unfriendly fungus known as Panama disease wiped Big Mike off the map. A new strain of Panama disease, called tropical race four, has recently begun to attack the Cavendish cultivar. Since Panama disease is resistant to fungicides, the Cavendish may soon be replaced by a different type of banana in world trade.

Cooking with Plantains

The plantain is starchier and less sweet than your everyday banana, making it less suitable for raw eating (unless very ripe) and much more suitable for use in cooking.

If you've never done yourself the favor of trying Carribean cuisine, you'll be amazed at what can be done with a single ingredient. Plantains can be cooked at any stage of ripeness, and the difference in flavor between a fried green plantain and a fried ripe one is subtle and fantastic.

Preparation is very simple. Tostones are green plantains, cut into one-inch diagonal slices, and fried in oil until brown; then they are flattened and fried again. Without further addition, these are delectable; however, traditional Dominican tostones are topped with sour cream and red or black caviar. The Venezuelan version, called patacones, are treated more like tostadas and are covered with shredded meat, cheese, and chopped lettuce.

Maduros, on the other hand, are very ripe- so ripe that the skin of the plantain is brown to black- and the slices are fried once until golden brown. Traditionally, these are served plain.

You can also slice green plantains very thin and deep-fry them to make chips; I find these superior to potato chips (especially with a little lime juice and salt).