Prudhomme’s Original Blackened Seasoning

When Paul Prudhomme came barreling out of the bayous in the early 80’s, his cuisine had an enormous impact on the restaurant industry. The Cajun rage prompted restaurants as far away as Seattle to place jambalayas, gumbos, and etouffees on their menus. But the one dish that inspired a genuine craze was his blackened redfish.

Prudhomme first served blackened redfish at K-Paul’s in March, 1980, serving 30 or 40 people. It was an immediate hit; within days the restaurant was full, and within weeks, there were long lines. The dish became so popular that redfish (aka red drum, Sciaenops ocellatus) populations in the Gulf were severely impacted. The fish were sucked up in nets by the truckload in the bays, passes, and inlets from the Florida Keys to Brownsville, Texas, nearly wiping out the overall redfish stock. Fortunately, intensive conservation efforts were put in place—one of them being the founding of the Gulf Coast Conservation Association—and the redfish rebounded.

Blackening is an ideal cooking method for fish, but you can also blacken meats and shellfish, even squash and eggplant. Foods to be blackened are dredged in melted butter, coated in the following seasoning mix, then seared in a super-heated skillet. Do not try blackening inside unless you have a commercial vent hood, and if outside you must use a gas flame. Prudhomme’s herbal measurements are excruciatingly precise, so. I usually quadruple the recipe to make it easy.

1 tablespoon sweet paprika
2 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon ground red pepper (preferably cayenne)
¾ teaspoon white pepper
¾ teaspoon black pepper
½ teaspoon dried thyme leaves
½ teaspoon dried oregano leaves

About Roux

Here in the deep Mid-South, our cooking is heavily influenced by the distinctive Creole and Cajun cooking of Louisiana. One of the basic building blocks of these cuisines is the roux, a blend of starch, usually flour, and a liquid fat that’s cooked to varying degrees and used to thicken stews and soups, sauces and gravies. Roux are used in most “Continental” (i.e. European) cuisines as well, and the word itself comes from the French for “red” (rouge).

Starch has been used in kitchens to thicken liquids even before kitchens existed, but anyone who has tried to mix raw flour into a soup to thicken it knows it will just bubble and clump into a wet paste that takes forever to blend. When you combine flour with oil, the starch granules become coated with the fat and blend into stock or milk. Heating the flour in the oil cooks out the raw, pasty flour flavor, and though roux means “red”, roux are cooked for varying lengths of time to different colors for different uses.

Plain flour is most often used for a roux, and it’s the best for general use; save that corn starch for Asian dishes (more about that later). The best rule of thumb is one-part flour to one-part oil in a paste. As to what kind of oil, that depends on what you’re cooking. Generally speaking, if you’re making a white roux, use butter (not margarine, dear hearts). Since butter will burn at higher temperatures, use vegetable oil for darker roux as in most meat dishes and seafood, adding a little olive oil (particularly in a gumbo roux) for added flavor. Use lard or bacon drippings for that authentic down-home flavor you need in biscuit gravy.

Most roux are made in a sauce pan on the stove top. Yes, I know you can make a roux in the oven, or even in the microwave, but the stove top gives you much more control over the product. Cooking a roux on the stove top requires constant care and concentration. A lot of people call roux “Cajun napalm” for good reason; it will stick to your skin and burn, so when you’re cooking roux, avoid any distractions, use long-handled utensils, and for heaven’s sake, keep your children under control or out of the kitchen. Use a skillet with flared sides; cast iron is perfect. Never use a non-stick surface. Some people heat the oil first, some mix the oil and flour together before adding it to the pan, and some keep a mixture of oil/butter and flour in the refrigerator to make a roux on the fly.

Do it your way, but unless you’ve had a lot of practice, don’t use a high heat to make a roux. Cook the roux slowly, and scrape the bottom of the pan to achieve an even color throughout the mixture. If black specks appear, you’ve burned the roux, and you have to throw it away and start over. Never, never, never use a scorched roux; your gumbo, etouffee, or what have you will smell (and taste) like an ashtray.

Just like a slice of bread, a roux will toast; the longer you cook the flour, the darker the “toast”. It smells like popcorn cooking; at least, it does to me. Those of you who grill a lot may be familiar with the Maillard reaction, the reactions of proteins and sugars under heat that give meats and vegetables that roasted flavor. The same process is at work here. Cooking roux to different degrees of browning render different flavor and colors. They also thicken to a greater or lesser degree; the longer you cook a roux, the less it will thicken. You’ll find you will need to add more roux to thicken a dark dish such as a gumbo or an etouffee.

For white sauces—béchamel and other dairy sauce variations—cook the roux only long enough for it to stop bubbling, not long enough for it to brown at all. When making a white roux for soups and gravies it’s better to use slightly more butter, but for a thicker, stiffer sauce such as one you might use to hold a casserole together, use more flour. As a general rule, you’ll use lighter roux for dishes involving poultry or fish, darker roux for beef or game as well as most gumbos with the exception of a file gumbo, which traditionally doesn’t involve a roux at all. With experience, you’ll learn to customize your roux to your cooking.

photo by Vicky Wasick

Dirty Rice

Dirty rice, as is the case with any dish involving what were once called variety meats but are now more often referred to as offal (it’s a hipster retro thing), is one you either love or hate, and I’ve loved it since I first had it when I was a boy. Like any staple recipe and I assure you it is a Cajun standard, dirty rice has as many variations as there are cooks, but the basic combination invariably calls for rice with chicken livers and gizzards. Some people add onions, peppers, even celery, while some others add other meats such as ground pork or chopped cooked game. The one big bone of contention when it comes to dirty rice is between those who cook the rice with the meats and vegetables and those who cook them separately and mix them with seasonings before serving. I belong to the cook-separately-and-mix faction; I do the same with jambalayas, and I’ve been called to the carpet for that more than once, but I like the texture better, and cooking the livers with the rice tends to make them rubbery.

For dirty rice, first cook your gizzards. You can go to the trouble of trimming the membranes if you want, but I’ve found that if you stew gizzards for a very long time they’re going to end up as tender as can be and the resulting broth is a thing of beauty, rich and gelatinous. You will have to trim the livers, since those membranes will not break down. Sauté the livers with a little garlic and minced white onion until just done through; don’t overcook, or they’ll be tough and tasteless. Chop and add the meats to cooked rice with whatever sautéed vegetables you like and a little oil to moisten. Season, keep warm in a covered container and add chopped green onion before plating.

Maque Choux

This old Louisiana dish is best made with fresh sweet corn cob right out of the garden cut and scraped from the cob, not only for incomparable taste, but also for the starchy corn “milk” that does double duty as a creamer and a thickener. If you can find fresh corn, by all means use it, but for most of us—and for most of the year—the best substitution is frozen sweet corn kernels and a good heavy cream. This recipe is very basic; purists might even leave out the tomatoes. Smoked sausage is a nice option, as are shrimp.

Cut four or five strips of bacon into about one-inch pieces and cook in a heavy skillet over medium heat until the bacon is crisp. Remove the bacon, cool and crumble. Add one large yellow onion, a green and red bell pepper, all diced, and two minced cloves of garlic. Cook until the vegetables are soft, then the bacon bits, either 3 cups fresh corn (scrape the juice from the cob!) or a 16 oz. sack of frozen sweet corn, and a drained 14 oz. can of petite diced tomatoes. Mix well until heated through, then add about a half cup or so of heavy cream, reduce heat to a simmer and stir until the vegetables are coated. Salt and pepper to taste; some people like this dish on the sweet side, some like cayenne pepper—or Tony Chachere’s—for a kick.