Other than maybe when I was a teenager and eagerly followed the misadventures of Little Annie Fanny, I’ve never been a fan of comic books or graphic novels. Likewise, I’ve never liked Australian aboriginal art or certain works by Jackson Pollack. What’s my problem? I like white space.

White space is sometimes referred to as negative space, a term I don’t like because it sounds so … negative. White space is good. White space can be relaxing. White space provides balance. White space is a positive thing. And white space doesn’t have to be white.

White space can exist in the temporal world just as it does in the spatial. The pause in music can be as important as the melody. Rhythms can have balance. Noise can bring quiet, quiet can bring noise. (As I write this I’m listening to Arnold Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht, a piece that skillfully balances loud and quiet, melody and pauses, and a range of tempos.)

Food needs white space. About fifteen years ago I was invited to a dinner at an “in” spot around the corner from my house. There were many things wrong about the restaurant and the meal. My host had decided to order a number of appetizers for the twelve of us sitting around the table to share. When the various appetizer plates arrives, each was totally filled to the point that you could not see the plate underneath. Each plate didn’t have that many appetizers—there wasn’t even enough to go around—but each plate was covered with various leafy greens that draped over the edge of the plate. It was difficult to pass the plates because no one wanted to hold a plate via a lettuce leaf. The color of the appetizers was close to the color of the garnish so they seemed to fade into the plates. Occasionally a lettuce leaf would shift and the underlying plate—heaven forbid—would peek through.

When the main courses arrived, they were also somewhat devoid of white space. Instead of greenery, various spices, salts, herbs, and finely diced vegetables were distributed on the apron of each plate, all the way to the edge. There may have been bare plate shining through in some places, but the visual effect was that there essentially was no white space.

Just as graphic novels, aboriginal art, and the above mentioned dinner obscure white space with copious visual detail, some chefs do the same with taste. Many years ago, I attended a local supermarket-sponsored cooking class presented by a husband and wife chef team from what was then considered to be one of the best restaurants in San Francisco. One of the recipes they presented had an ingredient list that was three pages long. Various infusions were prepared from dozens of ingredients and then combined in the finished dish. Many of the infusions revolved around expensive central ingredients, like lobster, that never appeared in the final dish. I no longer remember what the final dish was called. I remember the overall dish being tasty, but that I couldn’t taste most of the individual ingredients that went into it. (For me, it was reminiscent of the principles behind homeopathic pharmaceuticals.)

Although there isn’t a truly good analogy for white space in a dish’s flavor profile, for me, an individual dish should have at the most only a couple of major flavors unless it is possible to totally separate those flavors while eating. Many of the modern dishes being presented in today’s upscale white-tablecloth restaurants are an assembly of different flavors rather than a combination of flavors. It is easy for the diner to pick their way through the flavors without tasting the flavors all at once.

In amuse-bouches, which by their very nature are small and often eaten as a single bite or two, an assembly of flavors is impractical. It is important for me to not use too many flavors in that single bite. In one sense, at least in my mind, I try to maintain gustatory white space in my amuse-bouches.

Each spring, my local farmer’s market has many uncured alliums for sale. Last spring, I purchased uncured red onions, uncured shallots, and uncured garlic. I bought much more than I could use in a single week because of a video I was working on that needed the alliums as props. Left with this excess, I decided to ferment the onions and pickle the shallots. The garlic went into a braised pork dish. (The results from the onions will be the subject of next week’s posting.)

What does a discussion of white space have to do with shallots? In planning what to do with the shallots, I considered a number ways to pickle them, but in the end, settled for an extremely plain brine: one part white-wine vinegar (5% acidity), one part filtered water, a pinch of salt, and an afterthought of cumin seeds. I thinly sliced the shallots by hand, 1 mm (1⁄25 in) or less in thickness, and placed them in a small canning jar. I made sufficient brine to cover the sliced shallots and added it to the jar. Rather than having only a sour flavor, I decided to also throw in some cumin seeds and mix them into the shallots. Once the lid was placed on the jar, I set the jar aside on my counter for a day. Since the shallots were thinly sliced, I figured the pickling process should be complete quite fast.

The next day I tasted the pickled shallots, liking both the sour vinegar flavor and the influence of the cumin. The jar was moved to my refrigerator until I figured out what to do with the contents.

A couple of days later my wife bought some large, double strawberries that looked better than they tasted. I took some of the strawberries and cut thin slices from the center of the fruit and finely diced, about 2 mm (1⁄12 in) on each side, the ends. I mixed the diced strawberries with the pickled shallots, which had been rinsed and drained. I arranged the sliced strawberries around the edges of the small serving bowls. I gathered each shallot-strawberry serving into a small ball and placed it into the sliced-strawberry arrangement.

The result was a slightly sweet, slightly sour, slightly cumin, and a dominant, but mild, shallot taste. I knew I was eating shallots, but not without adulteration.

Now, looking back at the way I presented the finished amuse-bouche, a mea culpa may be required. The only white space in the serving illustrated above is the paper the picture was taken on, unless you allow me to count sliced strawberries as white space. Next time, I’ll have to serve this preparation on a larger dish.