Food; The Upper Crust

Crustiness is a culinary come-on. Its latest incarnation may have begun with blackened and grilled food, though its reputation was sealed the moment the word crusty became the only acceptable modifier for the word bread.

There is a certain thrill to working through the difficult to find something tender and pliant. It makes eating -- among other things -- worth the effort. Contrast, of course, is also part of a crust's charm. Depending on the heft of the crust, the encounter begins with a crackle. The subsequent taste is an intimate melding of teeth and tongue, brittle and soft.

A tough epidermis both insulates and protects the life it surrounds. Crusted things tolerate high heat -- a boon for those seeking juice at first slice. A black-and-blue steak forms a primitive crust. Subjected to a blast of heat, the meat caramelizes into a crunchy surface, which, in turn, encases the drippings.

Self-containment invites respect, or at least adds to the mystery. Like an oyster, the closed and self-possessed beg to be opened and known. The urge is not so much a violation as an atavistic response to any closed door. Not wishing to feel shut out -- or imprisoned -- you feel the need to break the barrier. Which is especially pleasant in the case of a duck breast coated in pistachio.

A crust can be a taste sensation. Coarsely cracked nuts or spices patted on chicken, meat or fish will mildly flavor food as it cooks. The seasoning will then astonish the mouth. Brash flavors are more tolerable when they are merely an outer layer; they also tend to make that which follows seem like a relief.

Rice and sesame seeds, for instance, share a nutty flavor that becomes more pronounced when the two come together in a sesame-crusted rice cake. The surprise, and delight, is further exaggerated if the seeds appear like golden rice, and the deceit is discovered only in the mouth.