Stacking Ferments, Layering Flavors

Mixtures can be much more than the sum of their parts

When we’re making a traditional or familiar ferment, we’re generally making a standalone pickle or condiment—something complete, and ready to eat as is (like kimchi) or to be used in whatever ways we choose (like miso). Experimental ferments, however, might not turn out as expected, or might not be home runs in terms of flavor. I’m not talking about failures, makes that go bad or are just gross; I mean things that are just a little lackluster or which fall short of what we were hoping for.

When I harvested my shallots a couple of weeks ago, I cut the tops off instead of letting them dry along with the bulbs. They were still green and aromatic, and I didn’t want all that flavor to evaporate as they dried. The flavor is different, but they look a lot like scallions and scallions (especially charred) are a favorite allium. Since my pea pod ponzu was such a success, I wanted to make something similar with charred shallot tops.

I charred them in batches in the dry iron pan, letting them catch some real color, then chopped them all coarsely and mixed them with koji, water, and salt in a ratio of 2 shallot greens to 1 koji to 4 water and then 6% salt by weight. I put the jar in the immersion circulator and let it go for a week at 140˚F/60˚C. At this point I strained the liquid into a jar and blended the solids into a thick paste, something I usually do with ferments like these. Generally speaking, both solids and liquids can be super useful, so don’t chuck the solids until you’ve tasted them and thought about what they might become.

In this case, both were ok but not mind-blowing. The lack of protein made them a little thin; I should have used bean cooking water as the liquid, for example, and the result would have had much more umami. In any case, I had anticipated the possibility that this concoction might be a little bland so while the jar was in the circulator I chopped a bunch of shallot bulbs and macerated them in a simple cider vinegar along with a few chopped serrano peppers because obviously that was a good idea. I was keen to try the ponzu idea again, but with shallots and a little heat.

Then I remembered something else: a jar of dark green leek tops that I had kojified, but instead of running them in the circulator I tried accelerating them in a countertop oven with sous vide capabilities, but either I fucked up the settings or the machine can’t maintain a constant temp so it ended up much higher than the 140˚F/60˚C I set it for. So they got really brown, almost but not quite burnt. This of course was another in an infinite series of the happy accidents that arise when one dicks around with fermentation, because charred alliums are flavor bonanzas.

Now I had four alliumaceous ferments to play with: the shoyu, the shoyu solids, the shallot vinegar, and the heavily maillarded leek tops. The shoyu solids aren’t in the picture below. You can see how these compare with the deep browns of the finished products above. No prizes for guessing which one contributed the color.

The simple version is that I mixed the vinegar into the shoyu and it got more interesting, but still lacked a certain heft. So I added the leeks and blended that thoroughly, pulverizing the leeks and infusing the liquid with lots of that deep, caramelized flavor. Then I strained it through a jelly bag and let the resulting liquid settle on the counter for another day or two to precipitate out the finer sediment. Now it’s something to be excited about: a complex vehicle for oniony umami both bright and dark. It’s still not as dense and powerful as a true shoyu, but it can do nimbler things in dressings and marinades or as a finisher for all kinds of dishes. I think it’ll be wicked whisked into an egg yolk, for example, or in buttery emulsions.

Finally, I blended together the shallot solids, the strained leek solids, and the shallots from the vinegar. This was absolutely wicked—savory, sour, spicy, and deep—and needed only a bump of maple syrup to balance it out, pushing it firmly into chutney territory. It’s a gorgeous, glossy dark brown and it positively screams for sharp cheddar (more on that later). So this is thick and sweet where the liquid is thin and sour: a veritable Laurel & Hardy of shallot condiments.

So as you make your way down the fermentation path, start to think in terms of blends, mixtures, and other concoctions where the strengths of one make fill in the weaknesses of another. Remember that acidity can make a huge difference in sharpening flavor, and sweetness can do wonders in rounding it out. Reduction can concentrate something that’s kind of wimpy, and dilution can solve a dense or claggy consistency. And there’s no shame in adding a bit of store-bought something, either. If I mixed ketchup and maple syrup into this shallot ponzu, for example, I’d have an incredible barbecue sauce.

Keep your minds open, and whenever possible try to turn disappointment into opportunity. If nothing else, all this tasting and mixing is an incredible way to hone your palate and understand the nuances of the various techniques that create these building blocks.