Seaweed could be the perfect food: nutritious, naturally abundant, sustainable. But what do you do with it? Tamar Adler goes foraging along the California coast—and then whips up a feast.
“To look into such a pool is to behold a dark forest,” I remark to the stranger sitting next to me on the plane. I am actually reading aloud from Rachel Carson’s. But it seems a reasonable response to his question about why I’m flying across the country, to California, to forage for seaweed. Plus, the other reasons are mostly boring. An old friend, Iso Rabins, runs a, and he has repeatedly invited me to seaweed hunt with him. And Maine, where you can also get good seaweed, is frigid.
The question is: What to do with it? Yes, seaweed has been central to Asian cooking since the start of time, and over the last decade, restaurants in the West have caught on, motivated by the inquiry-based cooking championed by El Bulli’s Ferran Adrià and then Noma’s René Redzepi. Nashville’s Rolf and Daughters braises mushrooms in kelp stock. New York City’s Houseman steams fish with seaweed butter.
The scenery is arresting: dry, grassy golden hills dotted with nibbling cows. After a brief stop at In-N-Out Burger, which serves no seaweed, I turn toward the rocky gray coast and wind along a precipitous and picturesque cliff to GPS coordinates provided by Rabins. Scissors and bags in hand, we scuttle down a set of treacherous stairs to the beach. Seaweed grows at the border of land and sea. Wherever there is a border, there is biodiversity, and I notice immediately that I’m standing above a sort of upside-down boreal jungle. There are huddles of the Spanish delicacy percebes ; clusters of indigo mussels clinging to black metamorphic nobs. And the seaweed! Even a novice can tell we’ve hit the jackpot.
And how to cook this complex and ineffable nostalgia into dinner? When I look for mushrooms in Hudson Valley woods in fall, I am thinking, as I shiver through the damp, of sautéing them in fat and cream and putting them on toast; when I pick ramps in spring, I am already, in my mind, separating tops and bottoms to cook them in butter. In today’s seaside tromp, a certain degree of culinary fantasy is missing.
Apparently this is cult Breton butter-maker Jean-Yves Bordier’s masterpiece: his trademark hand-paddled cultured milk, mixed with copious amounts of wild seagreens collected only twice a year in Finistère, in western Brittany. Talbott places a call to nearby Churchtown Dairy, a Rockefeller-owned dairy farm, to request two quarts of freshly cultured fresh cream, then disappears into her kitchen.
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