Rubbing With the Stars

In the new millennium, we are all brands. The press uses poll results to talk about whether Obama's "brand" is rising or falling. Only a decade ago, regular Joes like us were told to "build our skill sets" and "establish our professional networks," but now the career-development pundits are telling us to develop "our personal brands." And in the age of Top Chef and the Food Network, the heads of restaurant kitchens are expected to appear at farmers markets, charity events, and radio shows. The choicest few even delve into licensing.

If you're a chef, tired of working 12 hours a day on your feet in an industry infamous for its narrow profit margins, putting out a line of branded products seems like a good way to make some extra cash and share your brand with customers who can't afford to eat at your restaurant often. But branding your own products is not the safest of paths. Recently David Burke's high-profile, heavily-invested-in flavor sprays disappeared from the markets; Todd English's line of pans, sold on the Home Shopping Network, got slammed in a Wall Street Journal celebrity-cookware test; and Rocco DiSpirito has become so overexposed through his corporate sponsorships (Lincoln, Bertolli, his own cookware) that he's squandered any cred left over after the disaster of his television show.

Seattle's chefs have hardly done anything so audacious. But over the years, several of them have put their names on specialty foods that they're selling in retail stores and tourist hangouts, on specialty-food Web sites, and at their own restaurants. I'm not talking about Cafe Juanita chef Holly Smith's new farmers-market cart selling gelati or the small jars of fruit preserves and ketchup that Maria Hines has started selling at Tilth. I'm talking seasoned salts.

Seasoned salts are only a tiny portion of the gourmet-food market, but they're not worth chump change. A May 2008 report from the National Association for Specialty Food Trade reported that annual seasoning sales in the United States rose from $366 million to $393 million between 2005 and 2007, and Tom Douglas, Kathy Casey, Don Curtiss, and Thierry Rautureau have all entered the market.

What better time to test our local chef-branded flavorings than barbecue season? I tasted a number of seasoned salts over the course of two meals—the first barbecue featured chicken breast and mahi-mahi fillets and the second lamb kebabs, all three meats accompanied by celebrity-chef-seasoned grilled asparagus and summer squash. I oiled the meats and vegetables, sprinkled or rubbed on the seasonings, and then grilled 'n' chilled. The sugary Salty's blackening spice was rejected from competition because it proved to be designed for pan-frying, and I threw in a bottle of Lawry's as a control. Here are the results, listed by performance:

Thierry Rautureau's Spiced Salt Rub

Price: $14.24 (including tax and shipping) for a 4-ounce bag at Chefshop.com; $5 for a 2-ounce bag at Rover's, 2808 E. Madison St., www.rovers-seattle.com.

Key ingredients: Coriander, mace, piment fort, lavender, peppermint.

Success rate: High. It took first or second place in most of the tests. I was concerned about the quasi-infinite number of herbs and spices in the ingredient list (one is "ras el hanout," a Moroccan spice blend whose components can number in the triple digits). On the grill, though, the seasoned salt made each bite taste subtly different—here I got some star anise, there some cinnamon; this bite tasted Mediterranean, this bite almost Thai. One friend was put off by the way the peppermint lingered after bites of the mahi mahi, but we didn't notice the same effect in the chicken, lamb, and vegetable trials. As the seasoner of meats, I would complain that the large, solid salt grains in the blend didn't stick to the meat very well and, in the mouth, packed a hard crunch. Yet the food never came out salty.

What the salt says about the chef: I want you people to know I can cook more than four-star French food. Also, I have a phenomenal palate.

What the salt says about you: I get a thrill out of never knowing exactly what I'm going to taste when I put something in my mouth.

Volterra Fennel Salt

Price: $15 for a 3.5-ounce glass container at Volterra, 5411 Ballard Ave. N.W.; $18 (including shipping) at www.volterraproducts.net.

Key ingredients: Sea salt, fennel seed, orange zest, and "other natural flavors"—I caught a strong thyme presence.

Success rate: Moderate to high. The understated complexity of Volterra's salt, with its dried herbs and lovely toasted fennel, came through best on the vegetables and the fish. I also enjoyed it on the lamb, but not as much.

Rejected varieties: I would have also liked to try Volterra's porcini salt, but my budget for this review couldn't accommodate two tiny $15–18 jars of seasoned salt.

What the salt says about the chef: I am tastefully restrained, subtly complicated, and not afraid to use consultants (the salt was developed with Ritrovo, an Italian company).

What it says about you: I search out premium ingredients and I'm happy to show them off.

Lawry's Seasoned Salt

Price: $2.79 for a 4-ounce plastic shaker at QFC (8- and 16-ounce containers also available).