“…the city of Stella, Blanche and Stanley, the city that to William Faulkner was 'the labyrinthine mass of oleander and jasmine, lantana and mimosa," a place one admirer said 'could wreck your liver and poison your blood,' the city of the Italianate mansions of the Garden District and forlorn housing projects like the one named Desire -- a place that gave America most of its music, much of its literature, a cracked mirror glimpse of American exotica and a fair piece of its soul…”
- Peter Applebome, New York Times, 8/31/05
Bayona
430 Rue Dauphine
New Orleans, LA 70112
504-525-4455
Memory is a capricious thing, and one is never quite as much its master as one thinks. I ought to have written this when it happened, but as it turned out I was reminded of this restaurant just recently by someone who had been there and even now still remember what I had. It helps, of course, that I still have the receipt from when we went. Yet I remember, too, flying into a post-Katrina New Orleans from Phoenix – Sarah having arrived earlier than I – and getting picked up by Jeffrey from the airport in his Ford Explorer. It was a warm, cloudless evening bordering on the muggy, the perfect kind for staring out of open car windows on long rides at high speeds; but there was no time to waste on ruminating about the weather. We were off to Bayona.
I first met Jeffrey when I moved to DC – around the same time that he did. He had grown up in New Orleans and was a damn likeable chap, as well as being a gentleman and a scholar in equal parts. He was also that rare breed of sensitive individual that is not built to last on this earth; and it sometimes seemed that he carried the weight of the world on his back, but to his credit he hardly ever looked the worse for wear. Jeffrey was an excellent person to talk to about any and everything. I soon found out that, among other things, eating – and eating well – was important to him, and naturally we became friends.
He had a habit of going on about things that made sense to him but not necessarily to his audience; but his manner was charming and his enthusiasm infectious, and you soon got around to his way of thinking. I was regaled with stories of a restaurant in a faraway place called Bayona, and reverential descriptions of the food and its creator, Susan Spicer. It was the perfect name for a chef, really, and I quickly became enchanted.
When I finally made it to New Orleans it was the first Mardi Gras after Katrina, and Jeffrey had moved back to his hometown. Sarah and I went to visit for the weekend, and arrived on the last night before Bayona was to close for the Mardi Gras weekend. Good fortune, then, as we sat to dinner – friends reunited and hardly believing it – in a quirky little Creole cottage in the French Quarter.
It was night-time, and we did not get to see the courtyard about which we had heard so much, but the inside of the restaurant was delightful enough. We each had appetisers – I had the carpaccio – and Jeffrey called for a bowl of their famous cream of garlic soup for us to share. It was rich and tangy yet not overwhelming, and Sarah went on about it for quite some time; but I could not see what all the fuss was about and was perfectly content with what I had ordered for myself.
The thing that strikes me even now about Bayona was that the staff and the service were all extremely pleasant and effervescent. It is not easy to keep up the good cheer when you are waiting on many different tables at once, rushing to and fro between the kitchen and the restaurant trying to keep track of orders coming in and going out. Our waitress and servers were in all probability tired and overworked and looking forward to the end of their work week, but they never once let us see any of that, never once dropped the façade, and always had a big smile or a few kind words for us each time we stopped them.
We had, respectively, the lamb, duck and striped bass as entrees – and Sarah’s fish came in a black bean dressing that was quite out of this world. As for myself I quite enjoy eating red meat, and washing it down with big, full red wines. It makes me feel as if I am part of a greater cause; that this is the way it has always been done and the way it should be done for many, many years to come. That night we drank an inexpensive Burgundy red – Vincent Girardin, Maranges 1er cru, Clos des Loyeres, 2002 – and if it had been any good it was probably lost on us as we talked the night away.
(I have since then become quite a fan of Burgundy reds. They are much more approachable than Bordeaux reds, often earthier – which I like – and yet for the most part have the same strength and character and complexity.)
It was obvious that our waitress was a dessert person, for she perked up on its mention, and took immense pleasure in delivering her recommendations. My tastes tend towards the savoury more so than the sweet, but I had to have the Bananas Foster, especially while in New Orleans. It was a good flavour, and strengthened my belief that the best desserts usually have alcohol in them. I had a glass of port to go with it and felt quite pleased with myself.
I doubt that Bayona, when I went there, was functioning to the best of its abilities, as it had been only a few short months after people had started returning to New Orleans after Katrina, and so I hesitate to judge the food. I would have liked to have gone at a time when the shadow of the city’s great disaster was not still hanging over it. We had a grand time though, and what I saw was enough to convince me that the spirit of Bayona was the spirit of New Orleans – genuine, warm, hospitable, and rooted in history. I knew now that it was this spirit that made Jeffrey who he was and what made dining at Bayona so enjoyable, and a spirit that, flooding notwithstanding, would never die.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
If it be not now, yet it will come
Amanda was the first to arrive, and as I met her in the doorway we both – from afar, in that manner of two people excited to see one another – unloaded in our attempts to get the first word in. She won handily, of course; with words that were not so much accusatory but rather tinged with relief at the absolution of guilt. “You didn’t answer your phone, and your doorbell’s not working. But I’m on time!”
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
Partly because of how much I travel, and more because it is how I prefer it – I go shopping for groceries each time I want to cook. Some weeks this translates into an almost daily trip to the store down the road, depending on whatever I feel like eating that night. The cold, biting winter days, though, have necessitated decreasing the frequency of my trips – for who really wants to leave the house when it is freezing out? I barely even leave my bed if I can help it. What this means then, is that the night of the grocery store trip is always a night for seafood – in all its clean, wholesome freshness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Crazy nights and lazy mornings
“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken." – MFK Fisher
I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.
Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.
As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.
I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.
But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.
I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.
It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.
I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.
Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.
As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.
I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.
But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.
I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.
It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Für Elise
Union Square Cafe
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The well-laid plans of mice and men
Sometimes planning a meal can be almost as exciting as actually making it and – very rarely – actually having the meal. Certainly for me it feels like the longest stage in the entire process: how many courses, what ingredients and what methods to use, what wines to drink and obviously most important of all – who to invite. Yesterday I finally threw a dinner party that had been in the works for close to a month; I had talked Laura and Amanda’s ears off about what I would make and it was time to deliver.
Part of the planning process, I feel, and especially with a multi-course dinner, involves choosing your courses carefully so that you have a comfortable mix of dishes that can be made in advance and dishes that have to be made a la minute. I had made vichyssoise earlier in the day and was going to serve it as a starter; the lamb would take four hours and so had to be started early too. The bread pudding would be served as dessert and could cook while we were eating. Really the only things I had to make by the time dinner actually rolled around were the pasta and the couscous. At two points last night I actually stood in my kitchen and twiddled my thumbs as I wondered what to do next.
To start we had vichyssoise, a cold potato-leek soup which I was cooking for the first time. I threw in a splash of truffle oil, which felt like cheating to me but it did wonders for the soup. Morgan had told me to use more butter and fewer potatoes for a thinner, lighter soup; I followed his advice and it turned out well. I had vaguely remembered reading somewhere that one should always over-season chilled soups, and I sadly did not heed this pearl of wisdom to the extent it was intended. I made the soup and it had tasted powerful before I chilled it, but when dinner came it had distinctly lost a little of the flavour it had before and was in desperate need of salt and pepper at the table. Natalia brought a bottle of Muscadet (Muscadet Sevre et Maine, Domaine des Dorices, France, 2004) to pair with the soup, and it was a delightful course nonetheless.
After the vichyssoise we had what I thought was the best course of the night, cappellini with clams in a variation of regular pesto that had spring onions and honey in it. This had a compelling and exotic flavour, and if Natalia ate red meat I would have definitely added pancetta to it for some smoky goodness. Hunter brought a delightful, clean and crisp white (Sauvignon Blanc, Montevina, California, 2003) which was almost buttery in its smoothness, and went wonderfully with the pasta.
As everyone finished up their primi I exited to the kitchen to whip up the couscous for the next course. In the oven I already had lamb shanks braised in red wine for everyone but Natalia – for whom I made portabellas stuffed with asparagus and breadcrumbs. Laura, who could not attend, had sent on a full-bodied red to go with the course (Cabernet Sauvignon, Tisdale Vineyards, California, 2004). An Old World wine may have worked better here as I had used a Burgundy Pinot in the making of the dish but Laura’s wine was more than adequate. We also had Amanda’s bottle of Bitch wine but we never got to drinking that – I will save that for another special occasion.
At this point people were rubbing their bellies but there was one course to go yet, and miles to go before we slept. I had wanted to recreate the Portuguese sweet bread pudding at Mill’s Tavern, but unfortunately had no access to sweet bread here in DC. So in desperation on Friday I had baked my own with a recipe I found online, and promptly burnt the crusts to a deep mahogany brown. I have a feeling my oven’s temperature control is – how does one put it – not quite so reliable. The bread itself tasted good though, and I went ahead with the plan. It did not turn out quite like regular bread pudding – there is a lot of work yet that I have to do on this recipe – but I made a cognac sauce that I drizzled over it and it was sweet, sassy, saccharine goodness like all desserts should be. Matthew brought port (Porto, Taylor Fladgate, Portugal, 2000) like I asked him to, and I drank perhaps a little too much of it. One never knows when to stop when drinking port.
The conversation had not yet begun to die when the night crept up on us, and it was soon time to go. As fall and winter approach so will those awkward moments before parting ways where you have to button your jacket, or wrap your scarf, or pull on your boots at the door before making your exit. I never know what to say during those few uncomfortable seconds. Fortunately this can all be resolved quite easily with hugs and kisses and handshakes, and it was a good thing there were plenty of those to go around last night.
Cappellini with Clams in Spring Onion and Honey Pesto
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
I can clam meat
½ cup spring onions, coarsely chopped
½ cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
¼ cup pine nuts
1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons heavy cream
Cappellini
Dash of Old Bay
s/p
Blend the spring onions and basil leaves in a food processor – do this in small batches to ensure they are well chopped. When done, add pine nuts and repeat. When pine nuts are blended into the pesto mixture, drizzle olive oil and honey into the mixture while keeping the food processor going, stopping to scrape down the sides of the container.
In a sauté pan, cook the garlic, shallot and red pepper in a little olive oil over medium heat for 4-5 minutes. Add the clam meat and season with Old Bay, salt and pepper. Add the juices from the can and cook down for another 4-5 minutes. Pour the pesto mixture into the pan and add the cream, mixing well to incorporate it. Keep on medium-low heat for a further 3-4 minutes to cook the cream through.
Prepare cappellini per directions on the box. When done, toss evenly with pesto mixture, correct for seasoning and serve.
(Pesto will keep in the refrigerator for a week or frozen for a month, for best results store with a layer of olive oil over it.)
Part of the planning process, I feel, and especially with a multi-course dinner, involves choosing your courses carefully so that you have a comfortable mix of dishes that can be made in advance and dishes that have to be made a la minute. I had made vichyssoise earlier in the day and was going to serve it as a starter; the lamb would take four hours and so had to be started early too. The bread pudding would be served as dessert and could cook while we were eating. Really the only things I had to make by the time dinner actually rolled around were the pasta and the couscous. At two points last night I actually stood in my kitchen and twiddled my thumbs as I wondered what to do next.
To start we had vichyssoise, a cold potato-leek soup which I was cooking for the first time. I threw in a splash of truffle oil, which felt like cheating to me but it did wonders for the soup. Morgan had told me to use more butter and fewer potatoes for a thinner, lighter soup; I followed his advice and it turned out well. I had vaguely remembered reading somewhere that one should always over-season chilled soups, and I sadly did not heed this pearl of wisdom to the extent it was intended. I made the soup and it had tasted powerful before I chilled it, but when dinner came it had distinctly lost a little of the flavour it had before and was in desperate need of salt and pepper at the table. Natalia brought a bottle of Muscadet (Muscadet Sevre et Maine, Domaine des Dorices, France, 2004) to pair with the soup, and it was a delightful course nonetheless.
After the vichyssoise we had what I thought was the best course of the night, cappellini with clams in a variation of regular pesto that had spring onions and honey in it. This had a compelling and exotic flavour, and if Natalia ate red meat I would have definitely added pancetta to it for some smoky goodness. Hunter brought a delightful, clean and crisp white (Sauvignon Blanc, Montevina, California, 2003) which was almost buttery in its smoothness, and went wonderfully with the pasta.
As everyone finished up their primi I exited to the kitchen to whip up the couscous for the next course. In the oven I already had lamb shanks braised in red wine for everyone but Natalia – for whom I made portabellas stuffed with asparagus and breadcrumbs. Laura, who could not attend, had sent on a full-bodied red to go with the course (Cabernet Sauvignon, Tisdale Vineyards, California, 2004). An Old World wine may have worked better here as I had used a Burgundy Pinot in the making of the dish but Laura’s wine was more than adequate. We also had Amanda’s bottle of Bitch wine but we never got to drinking that – I will save that for another special occasion.
At this point people were rubbing their bellies but there was one course to go yet, and miles to go before we slept. I had wanted to recreate the Portuguese sweet bread pudding at Mill’s Tavern, but unfortunately had no access to sweet bread here in DC. So in desperation on Friday I had baked my own with a recipe I found online, and promptly burnt the crusts to a deep mahogany brown. I have a feeling my oven’s temperature control is – how does one put it – not quite so reliable. The bread itself tasted good though, and I went ahead with the plan. It did not turn out quite like regular bread pudding – there is a lot of work yet that I have to do on this recipe – but I made a cognac sauce that I drizzled over it and it was sweet, sassy, saccharine goodness like all desserts should be. Matthew brought port (Porto, Taylor Fladgate, Portugal, 2000) like I asked him to, and I drank perhaps a little too much of it. One never knows when to stop when drinking port.
The conversation had not yet begun to die when the night crept up on us, and it was soon time to go. As fall and winter approach so will those awkward moments before parting ways where you have to button your jacket, or wrap your scarf, or pull on your boots at the door before making your exit. I never know what to say during those few uncomfortable seconds. Fortunately this can all be resolved quite easily with hugs and kisses and handshakes, and it was a good thing there were plenty of those to go around last night.
Cappellini with Clams in Spring Onion and Honey Pesto
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
I can clam meat
½ cup spring onions, coarsely chopped
½ cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
¼ cup pine nuts
1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons heavy cream
Cappellini
Dash of Old Bay
s/p
Blend the spring onions and basil leaves in a food processor – do this in small batches to ensure they are well chopped. When done, add pine nuts and repeat. When pine nuts are blended into the pesto mixture, drizzle olive oil and honey into the mixture while keeping the food processor going, stopping to scrape down the sides of the container.
In a sauté pan, cook the garlic, shallot and red pepper in a little olive oil over medium heat for 4-5 minutes. Add the clam meat and season with Old Bay, salt and pepper. Add the juices from the can and cook down for another 4-5 minutes. Pour the pesto mixture into the pan and add the cream, mixing well to incorporate it. Keep on medium-low heat for a further 3-4 minutes to cook the cream through.
Prepare cappellini per directions on the box. When done, toss evenly with pesto mixture, correct for seasoning and serve.
(Pesto will keep in the refrigerator for a week or frozen for a month, for best results store with a layer of olive oil over it.)
Monday, September 25, 2006
Waltzing with Wüsthofs
There is a scene in the 1990 film Goodfellas in which Paulie (Paul Sorvino) is preparing garlic to be used for tomato sauce. He is sitting down, hunched over a table, and it is as though nobody else is in the room. He uses a razor and slices the clove slowly and deliberately, with his left hand perched on the side of the table to steady it. He is a study in concentration – his eyes are focused completely and entirely on the application of the blade to the garlic and he holds his breath each time he brings the blade down – and produces transparent panes of garlic so thin that they “liquefy in the pan”. I think of this scene often, especially when I am prepping – for Rome may burn and the Bastille may be stormed, but I’ll be damned if anyone gets in the way of me chopping garlic.
I was thinking of this scene earlier today as I pulled dinner together from what I had in our depleted kitchen. I had been out of town for a week and Clayton had somehow survived without a grocery run. I had garlic – for what is a kitchen if it does not have even that – but not much else, and I did what I could. For a razor I had my chef’s knife, and as I sliced through the garlic I became aware of that sensation one gets when working with a familiar implement. It is comfort, almost, wielding my knife; but it is also power and strength and art and creativity all at the same time.
I have a Wüsthof Classic 8” Chef’s Knife, and it has served me well over the last year. I chose it for its heft, and the feeling of grandeur it gave me to hold it. The blade sharpens easily, and keeps well. It has claimed my blood only one time, and the knife and I have settled into a easy marriage of sorts. I thumb the blade without fear, and I sometimes take my eyes off the board. I can do those things now. Some day I will move on to bigger and better things – for like all enthusiasts in the culinary arts I lust after good Japanese steel. I long for the day when Hattori Hanzo will custom-make me a sushi knife. Until then I have my Wüsthof, and for now I am content.
As knives go I suppose I have been spoiled by the days living with Jose – when I had a whole bagful of his to choose from. He too had Wüsthofs – among others – and, as a dutiful student of the culinary arts, kept his steel clean and sharp. He respected the knives, and in return they did what he wanted in the way that he wanted it done. He taught me the claw technique, which I bastardized in my own use; and he showed me the proper way to cut an onion. To this day I prep as he does – he never cut so much as an onion without making a plan for the whole meal, and he never started cooking until everything he needed was cut and prepped. The plan, the prep, and the actual cooking – these were three distinct stages which had to follow one another in their entirety and could not be compromised. He would pull out everything he needed from the four corners of the kitchen and lay it on the counter; and after a flurry of his blade he would have his mise. Then, and only then, would the first fire be lit.
I hold the knife by the bolster – that thick metal piece joining the handle and the blade – pushing my hand obstinately into the finger guard, with my index finger straightened over the top of the blade. I do form a claw with my left hand, but at a forty-five degree angle to the blade rather than the ninety that I was taught to. Holding a knife gives me an adrenaline rush, and to feel the blade going through a leek or an onion or a pepper is a thrilling sensation. Rather – if your knife is sharp enough – you do not actually feel it going through, but only think that you do, and it is enough. Those in the know will understand completely that after using a good, sharp, well-weighted and well crafted knife there is no way of going back to a dull or unwieldy one – that feeling of holding a blunt blade as it crunches slowly through the leek or onion or pepper is one of unspeakable disappointment.
If, though, using a dull knife is unspeakably disappointing, then the thrill of a sharp one is quite indescribable. Jointing a chicken for example, or should I say jointing a chicken well, is perhaps one of the more satisfying tasks of those performed in the kitchen. To feel the blade of a carving knife slide easily through the flesh of the chicken, missing bone and joint altogether, sets my hair on end. I feel forceful and destructive, and entirely capable of bloody murder; but at the same time like a craftsman – delicate and elegant, unhurried and deliberate – turning a matter of a quick seconds into what feels like an eternity in paradise.
As I minced the garlic for dinner it was all I could do to keep from smiling each time the blade made its systematic thuds against the chopping board. I rocked the knife back and forth, and as my wrist moved I gradually lost the sensation that the blade and my hand were separate. I felt like an artist does in front of his canvas, and like a brute does in front of his victim; and there was no calculation whatsoever on my part as I simply did what should be done.
---------------
-------------
A Point: The very end of the knife, which is used for piercing
B Tip: The first third of the blade (approximately), which is used for small or delicate work
C Edge: The cutting surface of the knife, which extends from the point to the heel
D Heel: The rear part of the blade, used for cutting activities that require more force
E Spine: The top, thicker portion of the blade, which adds weight and strength
F Bolster: The thick metal portion joining the handle and the blade, which adds weight and balance and keeps the cook's hand from slipping
G Finger Guard: The portion of the bolster that keeps the cook's hand from slipping onto the blade
H Return: The point where the heel meets the bolster
J Tang: The portion of the metal blade that extends into the handle, giving the knife stability and extra weight
K Scales: The two portions of handle material (wood, plastic, composite, etc) that are attached to either side of the tang
L Rivets: The metal pins (usually 3) that hold the scales to the tang
M Handle Guard: The lip below the butt of the handle, which gives the knife a better grip and prevents slipping
N Butt: The terminal end of the handle
***Courtesy of Wikipedia
---------------
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Death in the evening
Fall is the best season to cook meat in. The weather accommodates both grilling outdoors and slow roasting indoors, and the wealth of options possible is greater than at other times in the year. I take much comfort in trotting out the old favourites in my recipe book, especially the ones I associate with lovely memories of our Friday dinner parties that one fall when Morgan and I first started cooking together. Margaret came to visit this past weekend and we planned and made a lovely dinner for seven – complete, of course, with a vegetarian option.
There are moments in time when you are doing something you love and you feel you cannot be touched. Sportsmen call this being in the zone, and it is a great and glorious thing to experience and behold. Yesterday in my kitchen – a kitchen I have been cooking in for almost a year now – I had a heightened, somewhat different, awareness of my entire space and I worked with passion and honour. Without realizing it I was thinking three or four steps ahead subconsciously and I moved with much certainty. I did the right things in the right way, and I was proper and honest and sure and the result was quite a tasty meal indeed.
I invited Amanda because she is such a delight, and Clayton because he pays rent here as well; and Margaret had three friends that she also invited. Margaret loves mussels, and I made those in her honour; as well as a whole roasted leg of lamb with plenty of garlic and fresh rosemary and mint, that I could not take my eyes off the entire time it was cooking. Big, hearty haunches of meat always make me weak in the knees, just a little bit, and I die a little death every time. It is a happy death, of course. I made the caramelized onion and apple tart that is my favourite vegetarian option; while Margaret also made a salad of greens with red onion and apples and toasted pinenuts, dressed in a ginger-balsamic vinaigrette.
There is something about a dinner party that excites me no end. Last night there was much chatter and pockets of conversation and wine glasses clinking, and we had a ball. At one point I leaned back and smiled while thinking to myself that these were grand times we lived in. Margaret made strawberry shortcake for dessert which was simple and extremely satisfying, and Clayton made us all coffee to close our palate. It was a perfect dinner, with nothing missing, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
Mussels in Saffron and White Wine Broth
1 bag of mussels
1 tsp saffron threads
1 bottle dry white wine
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 large leek, chopped
2 cups chicken broth
Healthy sprinkling of Old Bay
Half as much paprika as Old Bay
Half as much cayenne as paprika
Clean the mussels, picking out the bad ones, and leave them in iced water while making the broth. Pour the white wine and the chicken broth into a large mixing bowl and steep the saffron threads in them. This should ideally sit for about 20 minutes.
When ready to make the broth, fry the bacon in a large pot to a crisp. Starting soups and sauces off with bacon adds so much flavour and smoky goodness, it is a wonder people do not do more of it. When the bacon fat has been rendered, take out the bacon strips and set aside. Add the garlic and leek to the pot and season with the spices. Cook for about five to six minutes and then add the broth. Simmer the mixture for a while – ideally for 15 or more minutes – then add the mussels to cook. Remove them when they open and serve in bowls of the broth.
There are moments in time when you are doing something you love and you feel you cannot be touched. Sportsmen call this being in the zone, and it is a great and glorious thing to experience and behold. Yesterday in my kitchen – a kitchen I have been cooking in for almost a year now – I had a heightened, somewhat different, awareness of my entire space and I worked with passion and honour. Without realizing it I was thinking three or four steps ahead subconsciously and I moved with much certainty. I did the right things in the right way, and I was proper and honest and sure and the result was quite a tasty meal indeed.
I invited Amanda because she is such a delight, and Clayton because he pays rent here as well; and Margaret had three friends that she also invited. Margaret loves mussels, and I made those in her honour; as well as a whole roasted leg of lamb with plenty of garlic and fresh rosemary and mint, that I could not take my eyes off the entire time it was cooking. Big, hearty haunches of meat always make me weak in the knees, just a little bit, and I die a little death every time. It is a happy death, of course. I made the caramelized onion and apple tart that is my favourite vegetarian option; while Margaret also made a salad of greens with red onion and apples and toasted pinenuts, dressed in a ginger-balsamic vinaigrette.
There is something about a dinner party that excites me no end. Last night there was much chatter and pockets of conversation and wine glasses clinking, and we had a ball. At one point I leaned back and smiled while thinking to myself that these were grand times we lived in. Margaret made strawberry shortcake for dessert which was simple and extremely satisfying, and Clayton made us all coffee to close our palate. It was a perfect dinner, with nothing missing, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
Mussels in Saffron and White Wine Broth
1 bag of mussels
1 tsp saffron threads
1 bottle dry white wine
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 large leek, chopped
2 cups chicken broth
Healthy sprinkling of Old Bay
Half as much paprika as Old Bay
Half as much cayenne as paprika
Clean the mussels, picking out the bad ones, and leave them in iced water while making the broth. Pour the white wine and the chicken broth into a large mixing bowl and steep the saffron threads in them. This should ideally sit for about 20 minutes.
When ready to make the broth, fry the bacon in a large pot to a crisp. Starting soups and sauces off with bacon adds so much flavour and smoky goodness, it is a wonder people do not do more of it. When the bacon fat has been rendered, take out the bacon strips and set aside. Add the garlic and leek to the pot and season with the spices. Cook for about five to six minutes and then add the broth. Simmer the mixture for a while – ideally for 15 or more minutes – then add the mussels to cook. Remove them when they open and serve in bowls of the broth.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
An avocado adventure
I had an onion bagel with avocado today.
In the latter part of the morning I went to the coffeeshop with Amanda to work. It is always easier, I feel, to keep your discipline when there is someone else around. I do much good work at home in the early morning while Clayton is still asleep just so I can look at him with disdain and tut-tut when he finally emerges from his room. But once he leaves the house I sometimes lose my focus, especially if I do not have to call into any meetings. So it was that I arranged to meet Amanda; I had not eaten all morning and I was hungry and wanted some fresh orange juice.
The last time we were at the coffeeshop Amanda had gotten an onion bagel with fresh avocado and she got the same thing again today. She broke the avocado slices into smaller cubes with a butter knife and spread it unevenly across her bagel. The bagel was toasted lightly, and flakes of toasted onion crisps fell to her plate as she lifted it this way and that. She did this with her plate next to her on the couch while artfully balancing her laptop in her lap, then held the bagel to her mouth to eat it.
The coffeeshop was unusually crowded with plenty of eye-candy and yet all I noticed was Amanda eating the bagel. I had a bran muffin myself and was nowhere near as satisfied with it as she looked. Amanda has this look about her when she has eaten well – she leans back and gets a dreamy look in her eyes. Once after a meal that I had cooked for her she leaned back in her seat, rubbed her belly with her right hand and said simply, “Mi piace.” It was the highest compliment I have ever gotten.
The French have this expression they use to refer to a need for something to happen – il faut – which I like using because there is nothing in English which comes close. Il faut conveys a singular urgency and necessity that no word in English can replicate. That urgency and necessity reflected exactly and completely my state of mind about the bagel and avocado – I most absolutely had to have one for myself.
I had never had bagels with avocado before and it seemed to me like a strange combination – especially with an onion bagel. Still, when mine came I went through the same ritual Amanda did with it, for fear of not having the same experience. The bagel was toasted to the point where the tips were crisp and crunchy to the bite and had the smell and taste of something burnt, but the inside was still soft and doughy and had all the goodness that bread and bread products have. The avocado was fresh and sweet and not all of it would spread easily on the bagel, but I did the best I could. I rationed my avocado with the bagel that I had perfectly so that my last mouthful was one with just slightly more avocado than all the rest. It was, as experiences go, as satisfying as they come.
I had an onion bagel, toasted, with avocado today, and it changed my life.
In the latter part of the morning I went to the coffeeshop with Amanda to work. It is always easier, I feel, to keep your discipline when there is someone else around. I do much good work at home in the early morning while Clayton is still asleep just so I can look at him with disdain and tut-tut when he finally emerges from his room. But once he leaves the house I sometimes lose my focus, especially if I do not have to call into any meetings. So it was that I arranged to meet Amanda; I had not eaten all morning and I was hungry and wanted some fresh orange juice.
The last time we were at the coffeeshop Amanda had gotten an onion bagel with fresh avocado and she got the same thing again today. She broke the avocado slices into smaller cubes with a butter knife and spread it unevenly across her bagel. The bagel was toasted lightly, and flakes of toasted onion crisps fell to her plate as she lifted it this way and that. She did this with her plate next to her on the couch while artfully balancing her laptop in her lap, then held the bagel to her mouth to eat it.
The coffeeshop was unusually crowded with plenty of eye-candy and yet all I noticed was Amanda eating the bagel. I had a bran muffin myself and was nowhere near as satisfied with it as she looked. Amanda has this look about her when she has eaten well – she leans back and gets a dreamy look in her eyes. Once after a meal that I had cooked for her she leaned back in her seat, rubbed her belly with her right hand and said simply, “Mi piace.” It was the highest compliment I have ever gotten.
The French have this expression they use to refer to a need for something to happen – il faut – which I like using because there is nothing in English which comes close. Il faut conveys a singular urgency and necessity that no word in English can replicate. That urgency and necessity reflected exactly and completely my state of mind about the bagel and avocado – I most absolutely had to have one for myself.
I had never had bagels with avocado before and it seemed to me like a strange combination – especially with an onion bagel. Still, when mine came I went through the same ritual Amanda did with it, for fear of not having the same experience. The bagel was toasted to the point where the tips were crisp and crunchy to the bite and had the smell and taste of something burnt, but the inside was still soft and doughy and had all the goodness that bread and bread products have. The avocado was fresh and sweet and not all of it would spread easily on the bagel, but I did the best I could. I rationed my avocado with the bagel that I had perfectly so that my last mouthful was one with just slightly more avocado than all the rest. It was, as experiences go, as satisfying as they come.
I had an onion bagel, toasted, with avocado today, and it changed my life.
Monday, August 28, 2006
A simple dedication
In the good days I would work with Morgan in the kitchen and I felt very secure in the knowledge of limitless possibility. He had a lazy grace about him and always moved very slowly so it seemed that he did not care about the cooking. But he always cared, and for him the point of it all was in the planning and the making of the meal. He was more alive in the kitchen than at the dinner table.
What Morgan really had was the discipline to always respect the food. I never saw him cut any corners or settle for the easy option when it was not the right one. He would do the best things he could with the ingredients and the tools that he had, and he worked with a simple dedication that was oblivious to time and effort and all the other little things that you needed to sacrifice to make a great meal.
It was Morgan who showed me that red pepper and basil go extremely well together, and we had made on more than one occasion tilapia fillets with red pepper-basil tapenade. It was the first of the recipes we had dreamed up together that I had written down in my notebook and it was the one that I turned to two nights ago when Natalia and Matt and Hunter came over for dinner. To start I made mussels in a saffron and white wine broth and I paired the tilapia with a lemon asparagus risotto. It was nothing I had not done before so I gave myself an hour to prep and make everything.
As I diced the red pepper I was thinking about the night ahead and what we would do after dinner. I opened the wine and sipped on it – the chef’s prerogative – as I stirred the broth in which I would cook the mussels. There is no radio in my kitchen but I put some tango nuevo on the stereo in the living room and it made me feel like I was dancing as I moved around the kitchen.
I ended up having less time than I thought because I stepped out to send a work email I had forgotten to take care of earlier. Risotto is a dish that consumes a lot of attention because to cook every grain you must stir it constantly over controlled, medium heat. Sadly I probably did not give it the attention it deserved even though it came out quite passable. The mussels also did not taste as good as the first time I had made the recipe; and I felt badly about the tilapia because I had intended on breading them but did not have the time to do so.
I had treated making the meal very lightly and now that it was done I felt very hollow inside. It was not anywhere near what it could have been and that had come about because I did not respect the food. I had been in a hurry and had wanted above anything to put the meal on the table and I did not concentrate on the making of the food like I should have. We ate and it was good nonetheless because the company was charming but I woke up the next morning feeling quite disgusted with myself.
What Morgan really had was the discipline to always respect the food. I never saw him cut any corners or settle for the easy option when it was not the right one. He would do the best things he could with the ingredients and the tools that he had, and he worked with a simple dedication that was oblivious to time and effort and all the other little things that you needed to sacrifice to make a great meal.
It was Morgan who showed me that red pepper and basil go extremely well together, and we had made on more than one occasion tilapia fillets with red pepper-basil tapenade. It was the first of the recipes we had dreamed up together that I had written down in my notebook and it was the one that I turned to two nights ago when Natalia and Matt and Hunter came over for dinner. To start I made mussels in a saffron and white wine broth and I paired the tilapia with a lemon asparagus risotto. It was nothing I had not done before so I gave myself an hour to prep and make everything.
As I diced the red pepper I was thinking about the night ahead and what we would do after dinner. I opened the wine and sipped on it – the chef’s prerogative – as I stirred the broth in which I would cook the mussels. There is no radio in my kitchen but I put some tango nuevo on the stereo in the living room and it made me feel like I was dancing as I moved around the kitchen.
I ended up having less time than I thought because I stepped out to send a work email I had forgotten to take care of earlier. Risotto is a dish that consumes a lot of attention because to cook every grain you must stir it constantly over controlled, medium heat. Sadly I probably did not give it the attention it deserved even though it came out quite passable. The mussels also did not taste as good as the first time I had made the recipe; and I felt badly about the tilapia because I had intended on breading them but did not have the time to do so.
I had treated making the meal very lightly and now that it was done I felt very hollow inside. It was not anywhere near what it could have been and that had come about because I did not respect the food. I had been in a hurry and had wanted above anything to put the meal on the table and I did not concentrate on the making of the food like I should have. We ate and it was good nonetheless because the company was charming but I woke up the next morning feeling quite disgusted with myself.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Isn't it pretty to think so?
DC Coast
1401 K St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-216-5988
I very often muse to myself that I should have been alive in other decades, and one of my favourites is the Roaring Twenties. Art Deco and the Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance and the Lost Generation – I could go on. Last night I had dinner with the always lovely Laura and Amanda at DC Coast, and at fleeting moments throughout the night I felt transported back to the good old days of modernity and mechanisation. It was a strange feeling. At other times I simply exulted in the company of these two good friends – there is nothing quite so relaxing at the dinner table as familiar faces. And even though Laura did her level best to ruin the night with some inappropriate yet hilarious and, strangely, pertinent conversation concerning certain bodily functions, I had a smashing time anyway.
DC Coast is in the heart of downtown DC, and surrounded by tall, concrete office buildings with setbacks – banks and hotels and whatnot built in the style of modern architecture. It is a Saturday night, so there is little bustle on the streets; and a certain quaint and lazy ease in the air almost in defiance of the craziness of the workweek gone by. I walk into the restaurant with Amanda, and it is hard not to have your breath taken away. The room is sprawling and the ceilings soaring, and there are beautiful Beaux-Arts fixtures and arches punctuating the walls. There is a bar to the left of us that stretches the length of the room, and behind it large oval mirrors hang on the walls, making the room look even more impressive than it already is. I felt like one must have in the Gatsby mansion, and resolved to live out the night with the requisite pomp and circumstance.
My pre-dinner drink of choice is the usual Tanqueray and tonic, and the bartender makes it good and stiff. This sells me on the place almost immediately. The service was prompt and personable, and they do not hurry us one whit as we wait for Laura to show up. In fact, throughout the course of the meal the staff that serve us are wonderfully patient and exceedingly quick to accede to all our requests – including a particularly obnoxious one for larger wine glasses, made by a certain individual who shall remain unnamed. They run a pretty tight ship at DC Coast, and I am impressed.
It appears, too, that the kitchen is as competent as the house. Laura and Amanda both start with soups, and I have a shrimp risotto that fills me with food envy, for while the lightness of the risotto was all well and good I secretly craved the spice and splendour that was Amanda’s lobster bisque. I follow that with the yellowfin tuna, seared and cooked to a beautiful rare, with the inside barely warmed. It was paired with cold calamari ceviche, which gave the dish that citrusy tang that complements seafood so well. I looked up in the middle of my meal, surprised to find Amanda holding out her plate across the table – she had cut out a piece of sea scallop and was offering it to me. She is a sweet, sweet girl, and so much of a better person than I am that it embarrasses me.
Dessert is stellar as well – I had a panna cotta that rekindled my infatuation with the vanilla bean. Then we all closed our palate with espressos and I felt very European. It says something that when we finally left the restaurant and went our separate ways, I had little recollection of the nuances of the evening’s conversation – except for Laura’s interesting aside – and even less idea of how much time had passed. Yet it had been a good two and a half hour dinner, and we had seen a couple at the adjacent table come and go.
As we parted and I walked the dinner off en route to yet more shenanigans, I could not help but think about what I like to call the CAV/Mills debate. CAV and Mills Tavern are respectively my two favourite restaurants in Providence, RI from when I used to live there. I like the former because it is an intimate and personal place, the sort of restaurant that nourishes more than it feeds. But I also love the latter, formal and proper and deferential to the notion that cooking is the highest of arts, and should be performed on a stage that gives it its due.
Funny then, that I was at Nora two nights ago, a place that nurtures, that provides, that makes people happy much in the vein of CAV; and then the following night at DC Coast, majestic and thorough and a similar style of restaurant to Mills Tavern. I cannot decide which of these two types of restaurants I like better, and I hope I never have to choose.
1401 K St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-216-5988
I very often muse to myself that I should have been alive in other decades, and one of my favourites is the Roaring Twenties. Art Deco and the Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance and the Lost Generation – I could go on. Last night I had dinner with the always lovely Laura and Amanda at DC Coast, and at fleeting moments throughout the night I felt transported back to the good old days of modernity and mechanisation. It was a strange feeling. At other times I simply exulted in the company of these two good friends – there is nothing quite so relaxing at the dinner table as familiar faces. And even though Laura did her level best to ruin the night with some inappropriate yet hilarious and, strangely, pertinent conversation concerning certain bodily functions, I had a smashing time anyway.
DC Coast is in the heart of downtown DC, and surrounded by tall, concrete office buildings with setbacks – banks and hotels and whatnot built in the style of modern architecture. It is a Saturday night, so there is little bustle on the streets; and a certain quaint and lazy ease in the air almost in defiance of the craziness of the workweek gone by. I walk into the restaurant with Amanda, and it is hard not to have your breath taken away. The room is sprawling and the ceilings soaring, and there are beautiful Beaux-Arts fixtures and arches punctuating the walls. There is a bar to the left of us that stretches the length of the room, and behind it large oval mirrors hang on the walls, making the room look even more impressive than it already is. I felt like one must have in the Gatsby mansion, and resolved to live out the night with the requisite pomp and circumstance.
My pre-dinner drink of choice is the usual Tanqueray and tonic, and the bartender makes it good and stiff. This sells me on the place almost immediately. The service was prompt and personable, and they do not hurry us one whit as we wait for Laura to show up. In fact, throughout the course of the meal the staff that serve us are wonderfully patient and exceedingly quick to accede to all our requests – including a particularly obnoxious one for larger wine glasses, made by a certain individual who shall remain unnamed. They run a pretty tight ship at DC Coast, and I am impressed.
It appears, too, that the kitchen is as competent as the house. Laura and Amanda both start with soups, and I have a shrimp risotto that fills me with food envy, for while the lightness of the risotto was all well and good I secretly craved the spice and splendour that was Amanda’s lobster bisque. I follow that with the yellowfin tuna, seared and cooked to a beautiful rare, with the inside barely warmed. It was paired with cold calamari ceviche, which gave the dish that citrusy tang that complements seafood so well. I looked up in the middle of my meal, surprised to find Amanda holding out her plate across the table – she had cut out a piece of sea scallop and was offering it to me. She is a sweet, sweet girl, and so much of a better person than I am that it embarrasses me.
Dessert is stellar as well – I had a panna cotta that rekindled my infatuation with the vanilla bean. Then we all closed our palate with espressos and I felt very European. It says something that when we finally left the restaurant and went our separate ways, I had little recollection of the nuances of the evening’s conversation – except for Laura’s interesting aside – and even less idea of how much time had passed. Yet it had been a good two and a half hour dinner, and we had seen a couple at the adjacent table come and go.
As we parted and I walked the dinner off en route to yet more shenanigans, I could not help but think about what I like to call the CAV/Mills debate. CAV and Mills Tavern are respectively my two favourite restaurants in Providence, RI from when I used to live there. I like the former because it is an intimate and personal place, the sort of restaurant that nourishes more than it feeds. But I also love the latter, formal and proper and deferential to the notion that cooking is the highest of arts, and should be performed on a stage that gives it its due.
Funny then, that I was at Nora two nights ago, a place that nurtures, that provides, that makes people happy much in the vein of CAV; and then the following night at DC Coast, majestic and thorough and a similar style of restaurant to Mills Tavern. I cannot decide which of these two types of restaurants I like better, and I hope I never have to choose.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
So fresh and so clean
Restaurant Nora
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143
There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.
Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.
I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.
It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.
I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.
Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.
We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143
There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.
Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.
I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.
It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.
I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.
Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.
We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Letter from Portugal
Aug 13, 2006
It finally happened. I have had my dose of tripe.
There are two kinds of tripe and two kinds of people. In terms of people there are, as you so cleverly put, Fools for offal and people who wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. I think that I am in the former, not because I like it, but because I like the idea of liking it. There are, of course, some offal all-stars: sweetbreads and foie gras are as close to my heart as my lungs. In terms of tripe there is feathered and honeycomb. I can't tell you exactly where they come from in a pig's intestines but I know that I was eating honeycomb.
North Portugal and Porto particularly are famously known as "Tripe Eaters", ever since they gave all their pork to Henry the Navigator for a voyage in 1415, keeping only tripe for themselves. One realises very quickly in Portugal that the menu options can be pretty limited: grilled or fried salty pieces of meat and fish with potatoes and rice, maybe some salty lettuce. Before long you begin to look at a menu and to say "I haven't heard of that one before." Yesterday it was 'Dobrado com feijão branco" which is to say "doubled with white beans" Turned out to be a spicy stew of pork liver, tripe, hot peppers and beans served over rice (two kinds of offal equals doubled in this crazy country).
Delicious! To crown all, I was in a dive restaurant where you got soup, bread, a plate, dessert, wine and coffee for 4.50 Euros. It don't get much better than that.
- Morgan
This arrived in my mailbox last evening and was warmly welcomed. At that very moment I had other foods on my mind – people were coming over and I was in the midst of grilling a curried pork shoulder – but it nevertheless simultaneously excited me and gave me cause for lament. Granted, I am not looking hard enough, but I have yet to find my own butcher or meat market here in the District. Eastern Market will do in a pinch; but what I really crave is a butcher shop right down the street from me that I can stop by every day on my way home from work, get whatever cuts of meat or entrails catch my fancy and bring it home wrapped in yesterday’s paper.
Tripe is a difficult thing to like, and as Morgan puts it – much easier to like for the idea of liking it. I may have started out that way myself. Now I can honestly say, though, that I do like it. Like other offal, it is a unique and complex flavour; and a particularly feisty one that requires a certain culinary expertise to tame. I did not grow up an adventurous eater, but that has changed somewhat. Some things remain off the list though – I was once served chicken heart in a churrascaria and could not bring myself to physically put it in my mouth. I still do not think that I can today, either.
The last time I had tripe was at that bastion of New York Italian restaurants – Felidia in midtown. It was perhaps a different meal from Morgan's homely €4.50 dinner in the land of port, but I must say that I particularly enjoyed it. Felidia has a classical elegance, yet remains convivial, hospitable and all things heart-warming – much like that rare breed of graceful women with the uncanny ability to make everybody in the room feel at ease. My primo was superlative – a maccheroni chitarra with clams and speck tossed lightly in a spring onion pesto flavoured with borage. I did not know it at the time, but borage is a medicinal herb also known as starflower – with a sweet honey-like taste – and it rounded out the dish perfectly.
Then I had the tripe, a simple trippa alla romana – with tomato and pecarino romano – complemented with polenta. It was homage to the history of tripe: the food of the working classes given its place on the flashy, fickle stage that is haute cuisine. The thing about tripe is that I can never eat too much of it at one go. Tripe has a hearty, almost obnoxious, taste that overwhelms the palate and demands undivided attention. It knocks me over. It wears me out. I was a broken man at the end of that meal – senses overloaded, appetite exhausted – but a contented one regardless.
Of all the offal there is to eat, tripe may be one of the lesser lights. Liver in general is ridiculously good, foie gras unbelievable of course. Bull’s tongue is surprisingly delicious and delicate. And there are some among my immediate circle of friends I would kill just for sweetbread. The list goes on. But that night at Felidia I washed the tripe down with a robust Italian red and, despite wearing me out so, it made me happy and courageous enough to smile at the lovely lady at the adjacent table with the brown hair and the green eyes.
It finally happened. I have had my dose of tripe.
There are two kinds of tripe and two kinds of people. In terms of people there are, as you so cleverly put, Fools for offal and people who wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. I think that I am in the former, not because I like it, but because I like the idea of liking it. There are, of course, some offal all-stars: sweetbreads and foie gras are as close to my heart as my lungs. In terms of tripe there is feathered and honeycomb. I can't tell you exactly where they come from in a pig's intestines but I know that I was eating honeycomb.
North Portugal and Porto particularly are famously known as "Tripe Eaters", ever since they gave all their pork to Henry the Navigator for a voyage in 1415, keeping only tripe for themselves. One realises very quickly in Portugal that the menu options can be pretty limited: grilled or fried salty pieces of meat and fish with potatoes and rice, maybe some salty lettuce. Before long you begin to look at a menu and to say "I haven't heard of that one before." Yesterday it was 'Dobrado com feijão branco" which is to say "doubled with white beans" Turned out to be a spicy stew of pork liver, tripe, hot peppers and beans served over rice (two kinds of offal equals doubled in this crazy country).
Delicious! To crown all, I was in a dive restaurant where you got soup, bread, a plate, dessert, wine and coffee for 4.50 Euros. It don't get much better than that.
- Morgan
This arrived in my mailbox last evening and was warmly welcomed. At that very moment I had other foods on my mind – people were coming over and I was in the midst of grilling a curried pork shoulder – but it nevertheless simultaneously excited me and gave me cause for lament. Granted, I am not looking hard enough, but I have yet to find my own butcher or meat market here in the District. Eastern Market will do in a pinch; but what I really crave is a butcher shop right down the street from me that I can stop by every day on my way home from work, get whatever cuts of meat or entrails catch my fancy and bring it home wrapped in yesterday’s paper.
Tripe is a difficult thing to like, and as Morgan puts it – much easier to like for the idea of liking it. I may have started out that way myself. Now I can honestly say, though, that I do like it. Like other offal, it is a unique and complex flavour; and a particularly feisty one that requires a certain culinary expertise to tame. I did not grow up an adventurous eater, but that has changed somewhat. Some things remain off the list though – I was once served chicken heart in a churrascaria and could not bring myself to physically put it in my mouth. I still do not think that I can today, either.
The last time I had tripe was at that bastion of New York Italian restaurants – Felidia in midtown. It was perhaps a different meal from Morgan's homely €4.50 dinner in the land of port, but I must say that I particularly enjoyed it. Felidia has a classical elegance, yet remains convivial, hospitable and all things heart-warming – much like that rare breed of graceful women with the uncanny ability to make everybody in the room feel at ease. My primo was superlative – a maccheroni chitarra with clams and speck tossed lightly in a spring onion pesto flavoured with borage. I did not know it at the time, but borage is a medicinal herb also known as starflower – with a sweet honey-like taste – and it rounded out the dish perfectly.
Then I had the tripe, a simple trippa alla romana – with tomato and pecarino romano – complemented with polenta. It was homage to the history of tripe: the food of the working classes given its place on the flashy, fickle stage that is haute cuisine. The thing about tripe is that I can never eat too much of it at one go. Tripe has a hearty, almost obnoxious, taste that overwhelms the palate and demands undivided attention. It knocks me over. It wears me out. I was a broken man at the end of that meal – senses overloaded, appetite exhausted – but a contented one regardless.
Of all the offal there is to eat, tripe may be one of the lesser lights. Liver in general is ridiculously good, foie gras unbelievable of course. Bull’s tongue is surprisingly delicious and delicate. And there are some among my immediate circle of friends I would kill just for sweetbread. The list goes on. But that night at Felidia I washed the tripe down with a robust Italian red and, despite wearing me out so, it made me happy and courageous enough to smile at the lovely lady at the adjacent table with the brown hair and the green eyes.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to
It gives my friend Reed a certain perverse pleasure to see her name in print on this page, and since I love and hate her as dearly as I love and hate myself, I afford her that luxury probably more often than is healthy. For truly, the self-indulgence of an internet soapbox does have its perks.
(I am convinced that blogging is a phenomenon that has arisen in equal parts due to our generation’s unshakeable conviction that we each have something that the world should listen to, and a corresponding waning inclination to listen to what others have to say. I mean, I only started this blog because my friends wouldn’t read my emails to them.)
But I digress. What I meant to say was, Reed visited me in the nation’s capital a while back and among the other dining establishments we went to was a brunch place on the U Street Corridor called Crème. I will write about this place some day, but what I like about it is first, that it serves the Velvet Swing – in my opinion the best Sunday morning hair-of-the-dog Champagne cocktail but one that precious few bartenders know how to make – and second, that it serves fried chicken for brunch. On top of waffles. Genius – pure, unadulterated genius.
So anyway that in turn got me thinking about dishes that I would serve or eat at any given time in the day; and the one thing I realised after way too much time and effort spent ruminating is that anytime, anywhere, you can always serve potatoes lyonnaise. What I mean to say is that I don’t think this humble (side)dish gets the credit it deserves. It is easy to make and such a great foil for everything: so comforting in its rustic charm, so understated and yet so, so satisfying. Here is how I make it.
Chez 1734 Potatoes Lyonnaise
(I usually make a potato per person, this serving is for 2)
2 large potatoes, cut into bite-sized chunks
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
crumbled thyme
healthy dash of paprika
dash of cayenne
dash of Old Bay
considered splash of chicken stock
large knob of butter
s/p
Preheat oven to 350F. In an ovenproof skillet, melt half the butter and then add garlic and onions. Season with thyme and cook on medium heat till onions begin to caramelize, about 8-10 minutes. One of the first things I learnt in my culinary education - which I accredit to Morgan and has stayed with me ever since - is how goddamn amazing onions and thyme smell when cooked together. I make it a point to always lean into the skillet, close my eyes, and inhale slowly.
Add potato chunks and the rest of the butter, then salt and pepper the mixture HEAVILY. The greatest crime ever visited on the humble potato is under-salting; the second greatest – Dan Quayle’s gross misspelling of the word itself. Season the potatoes with the paprika, cayenne and Old Bay and sauté until the potato chunks start to turn golden brown on the edges, again about 8-10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, combine, and then move the skillet to the oven. Cook at 350F for 30 minutes or until potatoes are at desired consistency – I personally like them to keep their shape but break apart into a mushy mess at the slight touch of a fork.
The best part? In the 30 minutes that you are waiting for this to cook, you have all the time in the world to make a main dish. I made this for dinner the other night and had it with steak nue, which is what I like to call steak grilled without any adornment, just salted and peppered at the dining table. I wanted to open a bottle of wine but Clayton said he would not drink any and it was the worst news I had heard all day.
(I am convinced that blogging is a phenomenon that has arisen in equal parts due to our generation’s unshakeable conviction that we each have something that the world should listen to, and a corresponding waning inclination to listen to what others have to say. I mean, I only started this blog because my friends wouldn’t read my emails to them.)
But I digress. What I meant to say was, Reed visited me in the nation’s capital a while back and among the other dining establishments we went to was a brunch place on the U Street Corridor called Crème. I will write about this place some day, but what I like about it is first, that it serves the Velvet Swing – in my opinion the best Sunday morning hair-of-the-dog Champagne cocktail but one that precious few bartenders know how to make – and second, that it serves fried chicken for brunch. On top of waffles. Genius – pure, unadulterated genius.
So anyway that in turn got me thinking about dishes that I would serve or eat at any given time in the day; and the one thing I realised after way too much time and effort spent ruminating is that anytime, anywhere, you can always serve potatoes lyonnaise. What I mean to say is that I don’t think this humble (side)dish gets the credit it deserves. It is easy to make and such a great foil for everything: so comforting in its rustic charm, so understated and yet so, so satisfying. Here is how I make it.
Chez 1734 Potatoes Lyonnaise
(I usually make a potato per person, this serving is for 2)
2 large potatoes, cut into bite-sized chunks
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
crumbled thyme
healthy dash of paprika
dash of cayenne
dash of Old Bay
considered splash of chicken stock
large knob of butter
s/p
Preheat oven to 350F. In an ovenproof skillet, melt half the butter and then add garlic and onions. Season with thyme and cook on medium heat till onions begin to caramelize, about 8-10 minutes. One of the first things I learnt in my culinary education - which I accredit to Morgan and has stayed with me ever since - is how goddamn amazing onions and thyme smell when cooked together. I make it a point to always lean into the skillet, close my eyes, and inhale slowly.
Add potato chunks and the rest of the butter, then salt and pepper the mixture HEAVILY. The greatest crime ever visited on the humble potato is under-salting; the second greatest – Dan Quayle’s gross misspelling of the word itself. Season the potatoes with the paprika, cayenne and Old Bay and sauté until the potato chunks start to turn golden brown on the edges, again about 8-10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, combine, and then move the skillet to the oven. Cook at 350F for 30 minutes or until potatoes are at desired consistency – I personally like them to keep their shape but break apart into a mushy mess at the slight touch of a fork.
The best part? In the 30 minutes that you are waiting for this to cook, you have all the time in the world to make a main dish. I made this for dinner the other night and had it with steak nue, which is what I like to call steak grilled without any adornment, just salted and peppered at the dining table. I wanted to open a bottle of wine but Clayton said he would not drink any and it was the worst news I had heard all day.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
It's a friend thing, friends are everywhere
Stella
1525 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-247-7747
Worlds colliding is always a tricky thing, but I keep trying to orchestrate it because it is so hard to meet good people these days that it seems unjust not to try to bring said good people together. And so it was that I had dinner on Saturday night in Boston with Reed and Margaret and Sarah – each a wonderful friend from a different time in my life. Dinner was delightful: if there was any tension at the table I was most certainly oblivious to it – I am after all not the most sensitive of souls, and particularly not when there is good food to be eaten and good (enough) wine to be drunk.
I must confess that I was not initially impressed by Stella – I had a glass of very ordinary Tempranillo at the bar, and am also generally not a huge fan of the white-on-white, South Beach mod look with clean lines and back-lighting and lots of vertical space. Let’s just say that I have never eaten good food off of a Philippe Starck table. But the staff was charming and pleasant, and the bartender as cute as a button. I have somewhat of a thing for bartenders: for at the risk of sounding misogynistic I must ask, what manner of woman could be better than one who brings you alcohol? So I held off judgment on the place, and basked instead in the company of these dear friends from whom I have been separated not by choice but by circumstance.
As a primo I had linguini in an asparagus cream sauce infused with truffle and thyme, served with a poached egg. It was, to the chef’s credit, a very light dish – almost too light, for it left me craving a stronger hint of truffle. (Apparently Reed and Margaret – gourmet convenience cooks that they are – are exponents of the pasta-and-egg combination. I shudder to think what other atrocities have been served in the halls of 17 Pitman. Margaret has never cooked for me, but I have seen a picture of her making pasta – so she can and does cook, that much I know. I liked that picture because both Margaret and the pasta looked extremely delicious.)
But my secondo was fabulous – a spicy cioppino with mussels and shrimp and cod and potatoes, the latter being a very rustic Portuguese touch, I feel. It was almost the perfect consistency, with the various bits of seafood still maintaining their structure and texture – not cooked to death, as is the danger when making stews. To explain, cioppino is a fish stew with Mediterranean influences that apparently originated on the shores of California thanks to Genovese fishermen – much in the style of bouillabaisse, but earthier and cooked for a shorter period of time. Seafood is all so tasty that I can never make up my mind what to eat, and cioppino removes that dilemma altogether. This is also why I am a fan of other stew-type dishes like cassoulet and bouillabaisse and étouffée. I mean, the words themselves make my mouth water.
Reed got a pork Milanese that she took literally two bites of and then had packed to go. It looked mighty fine and had I been able to stuff anything else in my mouth I would certainly have tried to make a go of finishing it for her. I cannot eat like I used to anymore, and it pains me - for the one requisite for any serious gourmand is, of course, a healthy appetite.
So Stella was a nice surprise – a see-and-be-seen place with food that is surprisingly more than decent and prices that are more than reasonable. The various regional dishes do approximate quite admirably the Italian cuisines they are meant to evoke, and our waiter’s endearing earnestness was quite charming indeed. Curiously enough, his name according to the receipt was also Jason H, so we left him a good tip and went off to ply ourselves with more alcohol elsewhere.
1525 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-247-7747
Worlds colliding is always a tricky thing, but I keep trying to orchestrate it because it is so hard to meet good people these days that it seems unjust not to try to bring said good people together. And so it was that I had dinner on Saturday night in Boston with Reed and Margaret and Sarah – each a wonderful friend from a different time in my life. Dinner was delightful: if there was any tension at the table I was most certainly oblivious to it – I am after all not the most sensitive of souls, and particularly not when there is good food to be eaten and good (enough) wine to be drunk.
I must confess that I was not initially impressed by Stella – I had a glass of very ordinary Tempranillo at the bar, and am also generally not a huge fan of the white-on-white, South Beach mod look with clean lines and back-lighting and lots of vertical space. Let’s just say that I have never eaten good food off of a Philippe Starck table. But the staff was charming and pleasant, and the bartender as cute as a button. I have somewhat of a thing for bartenders: for at the risk of sounding misogynistic I must ask, what manner of woman could be better than one who brings you alcohol? So I held off judgment on the place, and basked instead in the company of these dear friends from whom I have been separated not by choice but by circumstance.
As a primo I had linguini in an asparagus cream sauce infused with truffle and thyme, served with a poached egg. It was, to the chef’s credit, a very light dish – almost too light, for it left me craving a stronger hint of truffle. (Apparently Reed and Margaret – gourmet convenience cooks that they are – are exponents of the pasta-and-egg combination. I shudder to think what other atrocities have been served in the halls of 17 Pitman. Margaret has never cooked for me, but I have seen a picture of her making pasta – so she can and does cook, that much I know. I liked that picture because both Margaret and the pasta looked extremely delicious.)
But my secondo was fabulous – a spicy cioppino with mussels and shrimp and cod and potatoes, the latter being a very rustic Portuguese touch, I feel. It was almost the perfect consistency, with the various bits of seafood still maintaining their structure and texture – not cooked to death, as is the danger when making stews. To explain, cioppino is a fish stew with Mediterranean influences that apparently originated on the shores of California thanks to Genovese fishermen – much in the style of bouillabaisse, but earthier and cooked for a shorter period of time. Seafood is all so tasty that I can never make up my mind what to eat, and cioppino removes that dilemma altogether. This is also why I am a fan of other stew-type dishes like cassoulet and bouillabaisse and étouffée. I mean, the words themselves make my mouth water.
Reed got a pork Milanese that she took literally two bites of and then had packed to go. It looked mighty fine and had I been able to stuff anything else in my mouth I would certainly have tried to make a go of finishing it for her. I cannot eat like I used to anymore, and it pains me - for the one requisite for any serious gourmand is, of course, a healthy appetite.
So Stella was a nice surprise – a see-and-be-seen place with food that is surprisingly more than decent and prices that are more than reasonable. The various regional dishes do approximate quite admirably the Italian cuisines they are meant to evoke, and our waiter’s endearing earnestness was quite charming indeed. Curiously enough, his name according to the receipt was also Jason H, so we left him a good tip and went off to ply ourselves with more alcohol elsewhere.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The fruit of my labours
It has been over two years now since Jose taught me how to poach pears in wine (the secret is to add however much brown sugar you think is more than enough, and then double it), and since then I have had a colourful history of working with fruit. I make quite a mean magret de canard à l’orange, if I may say so myself. Sweet and savoury can be a potent combination – delicious when you get it right, and disastrous if not. Once every so often the wind blows in the right direction, the stars align and the gods smile on me, and I blunder my way into making a meal fit for a king.
I mention fruit because Jeff recently forwarded me a picture he had taken almost exactly a year ago of the swordfish steaks I’d made one night when we were both still living at 1721 T. It was a good meal, and thoroughly enjoyable. Apart from giving me a rush of nostalgia (it is hard to believe I have spent a year in the District, I guess days – and nights – pass by fast when you spend such a large part of them drinking your face off), the photograph also reminded me of all the fruits that are just now in season. So many fruity dishes to make, so little time. And perhaps more unfortunately, precious few good people to make them for.
Pan Seared Swordfish Steaks in Tomato buerre-blanc with Mango Salsa
2 swordfish steaks
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 3 limes
1 tbsp sherry vinegar
Half a handful of cilantro
1 red onion, diced
4 cluster tomatoes, diced
1 large mango, diced
1 cup dry white wine
butter
Salt and pepper the steaks, then drizzle generously with lemon juice and set aside. Meanwhile, whisk the lime juice and sherry vinegar into an emulsion and combine with the red onion, three-quarters of the tomatoes, the mango and the cilantro. Refrigerate the salsa and the steaks for at least two hours. When ready to eat, sear the steaks in a pan on both sides till browned, then add white wine and the remainder of the tomatoes. Cook the liquid down, braising the steaks in the process. When steaks are done, remove and cook sauce down to desired consistency. Monter au buerre and plate the sauce, swordfish and salsa – in that order.
I mention fruit because Jeff recently forwarded me a picture he had taken almost exactly a year ago of the swordfish steaks I’d made one night when we were both still living at 1721 T. It was a good meal, and thoroughly enjoyable. Apart from giving me a rush of nostalgia (it is hard to believe I have spent a year in the District, I guess days – and nights – pass by fast when you spend such a large part of them drinking your face off), the photograph also reminded me of all the fruits that are just now in season. So many fruity dishes to make, so little time. And perhaps more unfortunately, precious few good people to make them for.
Pan Seared Swordfish Steaks in Tomato buerre-blanc with Mango Salsa
2 swordfish steaks
Juice of 1 lemon
Juice of 3 limes
1 tbsp sherry vinegar
Half a handful of cilantro
1 red onion, diced
4 cluster tomatoes, diced
1 large mango, diced
1 cup dry white wine
butter
Salt and pepper the steaks, then drizzle generously with lemon juice and set aside. Meanwhile, whisk the lime juice and sherry vinegar into an emulsion and combine with the red onion, three-quarters of the tomatoes, the mango and the cilantro. Refrigerate the salsa and the steaks for at least two hours. When ready to eat, sear the steaks in a pan on both sides till browned, then add white wine and the remainder of the tomatoes. Cook the liquid down, braising the steaks in the process. When steaks are done, remove and cook sauce down to desired consistency. Monter au buerre and plate the sauce, swordfish and salsa – in that order.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Surf and Turf, or an Ode to the Oyster
Hank's Oyster Bar
1624 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-462-4265
Let me just state categorically, that I love eating raw oysters. I love holding the half-shell to my mouth, positioning my oyster fork just thusly, in rude anticipation of a moment of intense enjoyment. I love swallowing them without chewing, unadorned of any dressing, and slurping their juices down. I love the smell and the taste of the sea – never mind that I sometimes find grit in my mouth. It is one of the great pleasures and rituals of dining, and one I find I must perform every once so often.
It is quite convenient, then, to have Hank’s Oyster Bar just a few blocks down from where I live in DC. It is a cute little place with decent food – not amazing – with just enough flaws to render it human, which in turn makes it all the more enticing. More importantly, they have good oysters, the selection of which changes daily. Hank’s is also one of only two establishments on 17th St where the food is anywhere near acceptable, which – coupled with the delightful hostess Maya – might explain why I am there so often. The delicious irony of it all (pardon the pun), is that the other place on 17th St that is halfway decent is Komi, which in my humble opinion is the best restaurant in DC bar none, and a pearl amidst the swirling cesspool of gastronomic mediocrity that is Dupont Circle’s most famous street.
So Hank’s it was, where Natalia, Clayton and I went last night to get our (or rather just mine) oyster fix. They did not have Blue Points, but they did have Kumamotos; and I got a half dozen of those, which were gone in as many seconds. I lie, actually. We did pause, in recognition of the efforts of the oyster-shucker working tirelessly at the back to give us this day our wonderful oysters. And then we went right back at them.
For dinner, Clayton ordered a steak, which I, at least on the inside, frowned upon. I mean, everybody – apart from Clayton, apparently – knows the seventeenth cardinal rule of dining out: that seafood at a steakhouse is always decent, but steak at a seafood place can never be good. But I exercised what little restraint I was born with and held my tongue; the moment was far too genial for my caustic comments. I never did try the steak, so I cannot say for sure – but Clayton seemed to enjoy it. Although he is from Texas. And with that, I rest my case.
Perhaps the best thing you can do with seafood, I think, is to use Old Bay on it. I do not know what goes into it, and I do not want to know. What I do know, though, is that it is delicious. It’s almost cheating, even. We tried the Old Bay French fries and the Old Bay shrimp – and all I will say is that one can always tell when food is good whenever it makes you drop your fork along with whatever Old World sensibilities you were brought up to have, and ravage it with your bare hands.
Hank’s Oyster Bar is a wonderful little place – something or other about it always effuses you and fills you with love for your common man. Or perhaps that’s really the numerous rounds of beers talking. Whatever the case, it is the kind of restaurant that you see couples on first dates at – and your first instinct is not to feel sorry for their awkwardness, but happy for their courage. We departed late into the night – with big hugs all round – and stumbled home with silly smiles on our faces.
1624 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-462-4265
Let me just state categorically, that I love eating raw oysters. I love holding the half-shell to my mouth, positioning my oyster fork just thusly, in rude anticipation of a moment of intense enjoyment. I love swallowing them without chewing, unadorned of any dressing, and slurping their juices down. I love the smell and the taste of the sea – never mind that I sometimes find grit in my mouth. It is one of the great pleasures and rituals of dining, and one I find I must perform every once so often.
It is quite convenient, then, to have Hank’s Oyster Bar just a few blocks down from where I live in DC. It is a cute little place with decent food – not amazing – with just enough flaws to render it human, which in turn makes it all the more enticing. More importantly, they have good oysters, the selection of which changes daily. Hank’s is also one of only two establishments on 17th St where the food is anywhere near acceptable, which – coupled with the delightful hostess Maya – might explain why I am there so often. The delicious irony of it all (pardon the pun), is that the other place on 17th St that is halfway decent is Komi, which in my humble opinion is the best restaurant in DC bar none, and a pearl amidst the swirling cesspool of gastronomic mediocrity that is Dupont Circle’s most famous street.
So Hank’s it was, where Natalia, Clayton and I went last night to get our (or rather just mine) oyster fix. They did not have Blue Points, but they did have Kumamotos; and I got a half dozen of those, which were gone in as many seconds. I lie, actually. We did pause, in recognition of the efforts of the oyster-shucker working tirelessly at the back to give us this day our wonderful oysters. And then we went right back at them.
For dinner, Clayton ordered a steak, which I, at least on the inside, frowned upon. I mean, everybody – apart from Clayton, apparently – knows the seventeenth cardinal rule of dining out: that seafood at a steakhouse is always decent, but steak at a seafood place can never be good. But I exercised what little restraint I was born with and held my tongue; the moment was far too genial for my caustic comments. I never did try the steak, so I cannot say for sure – but Clayton seemed to enjoy it. Although he is from Texas. And with that, I rest my case.
Perhaps the best thing you can do with seafood, I think, is to use Old Bay on it. I do not know what goes into it, and I do not want to know. What I do know, though, is that it is delicious. It’s almost cheating, even. We tried the Old Bay French fries and the Old Bay shrimp – and all I will say is that one can always tell when food is good whenever it makes you drop your fork along with whatever Old World sensibilities you were brought up to have, and ravage it with your bare hands.
Hank’s Oyster Bar is a wonderful little place – something or other about it always effuses you and fills you with love for your common man. Or perhaps that’s really the numerous rounds of beers talking. Whatever the case, it is the kind of restaurant that you see couples on first dates at – and your first instinct is not to feel sorry for their awkwardness, but happy for their courage. We departed late into the night – with big hugs all round – and stumbled home with silly smiles on our faces.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
My modern day Mecca
Williams-Sonoma
121 E 59th St
New York, NY 10022
917-369-1131
Café Lalo
201 W 83rd St
New York, NY 10024
212-496-6031
All was not good for the good guys this past weekend. To everyone who I may have affected with my black mood and grumpy demeanor, I wholeheartedly apologise. If you have ever lived in DC – or indeed any urban metropolitan area, but DC more than most – you will soon realise that it is a very transient place; no sooner do you find good people then they are lost to you, moving on to bigger and better things in their lives. Among others, Sarah left last weekend for good, and Amanda – albeit temporarily, to Ghana of all places – and this was not helped by the fact that Jeff, himself gone for quite some time now, wrote me an email from Barcelona detailing his drinking and debauchery.
So, understandably or not, I was a little down this past weekend. But rather my point is that eating for me, and shopping for others, is an art worthy enough to rank with the other methods by which man chooses to escape reality. What better way, then, to lift my mood than to combine the two with a trip to Williams-Sonoma, that mecca for modern-day chef wannabes? To be fair, it was a fortuitous trip to say the least – I was supposed to meet Elisabeth and Jacob for dinner when Elisabeth called to say they would be running late, and I could not think of a better way to spend 45 minutes in Columbus Circle than to browse the aisles of what could possibly be my favourite chain store.
The thing about walking around Williams-Sonoma is that I am continually amazed at how much is being mass-produced these days that nobody should really need. I mean, a garlic press? It’s already been invented, and it’s called the blade of a knife. I also am continually amazed at how ridiculously expensive this place is. Nevertheless, walking around gleaming pots and pans and flowery placemats does something to me. I am enervated no end, and start to scheme for the numerous meals that I will make next. It is, for me at least, like a groundswell of ideas and inspiration. Cast-iron pans make me want to make saffron paella with squid and other assorted seafood; griddles make me want to make buttermilk pancakes with blueberries. Espresso machines – things of beauty they are – set me off on reveries of espresso and latte and afogato and coffee cakes. The knife display makes me want to touch myself. I have to continually remind myself to wipe that spastic little-boy grin from my face.
Needless to say, I was sufficiently cheered up by the time Elisabeth danced into the store. (If you know Elisabeth, you will know that this is no exaggeration – the woman is so graceful that she does not walk, but rather waltzes.) And then it was off, to dinner!
Dinner itself was perhaps nothing to write home about – we ate at a kosher café where the food was prepared under the supervision of one Rabbi Avrohom Marmorstein. No one in our party was Jewish, so the selection was a little strange; but the conversation was charming and the company enchanting, and I blissfully forgot the fact that my soup was quite unsatisfactory and that I could, perhaps, have done a better job myself of the flounder stuffed with spinach and feta in an orange buerre-blanc.
But then Elisabeth took us to Café Lalo, on the Upper West Side, a neon-lit monstrosity of a dessert place whose claim to fame lies in that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, in You’ve Got Mail, meet each other there for the first time after a courtship of online correspondence. Café Lalo is a café in the strictest Parisian sense of the word, right down to the paper tablemats and the tables bunched up against each other so you have to comport your ass and other extremities skillfully as you maneuver through the masses of chattering people going on about something or other. The only thing it lacks is the al fresco dining balcony with all the chairs facing outward for optimal people-watching. The French are a voyeuristic people.
And even though it is no Pastiche*, the dessert is delightful, and Jacob got us a pot of Russian Caravan, a blend of tea that he promised was “so smoky it’s like drinking a cigar”. I rather liked it myself. I sat across from Elisabeth, and she looked beautiful and radiant as she sat silently with a faraway look in her eyes and the barest hint of a smile, listening to Jacob. And for thirty glorious minutes in the company of these two dear friends, I forgot that I had to get up for work the next day.
-----------
*Pastiche is a dessert place in Providence, RI renowned for their fruit tarts - I swear there is opium in their vanilla custard - but the biggest mistake you can make there is getting the same thing twice. The true standout here, in my humble opinion, is the vanilla-bean cheesecake. I remember exactly where I was and who I was with the first time I tried this; and I'm sure they remember it too because I was moaning orgasmically and very audibly and in general attracting lots of dirty as well as amused looks. It is perhaps my favourite dessert place in the world and I will write about it someday.
***Footnote: Three weeks after this I went against everything that I stood for and bought myself a wholly unnecessary kitchen implement from Williams-Sonoma – a citrus fruit juicer. I know, it’s already been invented, and it’s called your right (or left) hand. But this thing is 18 inches of chrome and stainless steel magnificence, and has a very masculine beauty for a kitchen implement. I used it to squeeze a lemon for a dish I was making, and felt a rush of blood to my head. Two days later Clayton and I had freshly squeezed orange juice, and I felt very pleased with myself.
121 E 59th St
New York, NY 10022
917-369-1131
Café Lalo
201 W 83rd St
New York, NY 10024
212-496-6031
All was not good for the good guys this past weekend. To everyone who I may have affected with my black mood and grumpy demeanor, I wholeheartedly apologise. If you have ever lived in DC – or indeed any urban metropolitan area, but DC more than most – you will soon realise that it is a very transient place; no sooner do you find good people then they are lost to you, moving on to bigger and better things in their lives. Among others, Sarah left last weekend for good, and Amanda – albeit temporarily, to Ghana of all places – and this was not helped by the fact that Jeff, himself gone for quite some time now, wrote me an email from Barcelona detailing his drinking and debauchery.
So, understandably or not, I was a little down this past weekend. But rather my point is that eating for me, and shopping for others, is an art worthy enough to rank with the other methods by which man chooses to escape reality. What better way, then, to lift my mood than to combine the two with a trip to Williams-Sonoma, that mecca for modern-day chef wannabes? To be fair, it was a fortuitous trip to say the least – I was supposed to meet Elisabeth and Jacob for dinner when Elisabeth called to say they would be running late, and I could not think of a better way to spend 45 minutes in Columbus Circle than to browse the aisles of what could possibly be my favourite chain store.
The thing about walking around Williams-Sonoma is that I am continually amazed at how much is being mass-produced these days that nobody should really need. I mean, a garlic press? It’s already been invented, and it’s called the blade of a knife. I also am continually amazed at how ridiculously expensive this place is. Nevertheless, walking around gleaming pots and pans and flowery placemats does something to me. I am enervated no end, and start to scheme for the numerous meals that I will make next. It is, for me at least, like a groundswell of ideas and inspiration. Cast-iron pans make me want to make saffron paella with squid and other assorted seafood; griddles make me want to make buttermilk pancakes with blueberries. Espresso machines – things of beauty they are – set me off on reveries of espresso and latte and afogato and coffee cakes. The knife display makes me want to touch myself. I have to continually remind myself to wipe that spastic little-boy grin from my face.
Needless to say, I was sufficiently cheered up by the time Elisabeth danced into the store. (If you know Elisabeth, you will know that this is no exaggeration – the woman is so graceful that she does not walk, but rather waltzes.) And then it was off, to dinner!
Dinner itself was perhaps nothing to write home about – we ate at a kosher café where the food was prepared under the supervision of one Rabbi Avrohom Marmorstein. No one in our party was Jewish, so the selection was a little strange; but the conversation was charming and the company enchanting, and I blissfully forgot the fact that my soup was quite unsatisfactory and that I could, perhaps, have done a better job myself of the flounder stuffed with spinach and feta in an orange buerre-blanc.
But then Elisabeth took us to Café Lalo, on the Upper West Side, a neon-lit monstrosity of a dessert place whose claim to fame lies in that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, in You’ve Got Mail, meet each other there for the first time after a courtship of online correspondence. Café Lalo is a café in the strictest Parisian sense of the word, right down to the paper tablemats and the tables bunched up against each other so you have to comport your ass and other extremities skillfully as you maneuver through the masses of chattering people going on about something or other. The only thing it lacks is the al fresco dining balcony with all the chairs facing outward for optimal people-watching. The French are a voyeuristic people.
And even though it is no Pastiche*, the dessert is delightful, and Jacob got us a pot of Russian Caravan, a blend of tea that he promised was “so smoky it’s like drinking a cigar”. I rather liked it myself. I sat across from Elisabeth, and she looked beautiful and radiant as she sat silently with a faraway look in her eyes and the barest hint of a smile, listening to Jacob. And for thirty glorious minutes in the company of these two dear friends, I forgot that I had to get up for work the next day.
-----------
*Pastiche is a dessert place in Providence, RI renowned for their fruit tarts - I swear there is opium in their vanilla custard - but the biggest mistake you can make there is getting the same thing twice. The true standout here, in my humble opinion, is the vanilla-bean cheesecake. I remember exactly where I was and who I was with the first time I tried this; and I'm sure they remember it too because I was moaning orgasmically and very audibly and in general attracting lots of dirty as well as amused looks. It is perhaps my favourite dessert place in the world and I will write about it someday.
***Footnote: Three weeks after this I went against everything that I stood for and bought myself a wholly unnecessary kitchen implement from Williams-Sonoma – a citrus fruit juicer. I know, it’s already been invented, and it’s called your right (or left) hand. But this thing is 18 inches of chrome and stainless steel magnificence, and has a very masculine beauty for a kitchen implement. I used it to squeeze a lemon for a dish I was making, and felt a rush of blood to my head. Two days later Clayton and I had freshly squeezed orange juice, and I felt very pleased with myself.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Tutto suona più bello in italiano
Lo Scalco
313 Church Street
New York, NY 10013
212-343-2900
There is something about finding out a restaurant is a husband-and-wife operation that raises it somewhat in my estimation. It is as if the discovery reassures me that there was something personal, some love and devotion, some true feeling that inspired the opening of the restaurant; that it is not just another addition to some restaurant mogul’s portfolio. That warms my heart. I have recently been working out of New York City – where there is no shortage of good eats – and had the good fortune this past week to dine at just such an establishment.
The interior of Lo Scalco is beautiful - sleek, modern white walls and touches of black and muted brown, with Beaux-Arts arches, elaborate chandeliers and a classy marble bar. Designed by the wife of the chef and owner, after whose family the restaurant is lovingly and respectfully named, its most charming feature is the piping. It is left exposed, and camouflaged wittily amidst other horizontal fixtures across the high ceilings, in a very Brutalist sort of way, and it gives an edge to the elegance of the room – an edge that is, arguably, replicated in the food.
Lo Scalco’s menu is organised by region; there is an antipasto, primo and secondo for each region, that you mix and match for your meal. There are also some staples which, our waiter proclaims, the restaurant has never been able to take off the menu due to popular demand. One of these is the cannelloni with ricotta and artichokes, which I wound up getting. It certainly lived up to the hype – it was light and smooth and yet still packed a punch. I followed that with the rabbit – which was smothered perhaps a tad too much in fresh rosemary for my liking, but enjoyable nonetheless. Quantities aside, the cooking unconditionally espoused one of the main tenets of Italian cuisine – to let quality ingredients speak for themselves.
When it comes down to it, maybe cooking isn’t so difficult after all. What is difficult is finding fresh, local, quality ingredients.
Midway through our meal the chef comes out of the kitchen for what I can only assume is his periodic ritual of walking around and making sure things are running smoothly. You can tell that he is a chef almost immediately, and not from his toque and apron – although those do help. There are certain characteristics that are particular to each profession, and the practitioners of these professions are almost always indelibly marked. He had in his manner and comportment a singular focus and intensity – when he was walking one could tell that the foremost thing in his mind at that particular moment was getting from point A to point B. I think this is borne of working with food, where despite the need in a kitchen to manage and process a million different things happening at once, a million different entrees being prepared at once – when it comes down to it a chef must focus all his energies, at any given nanosecond, on the task that is at hand. Be it whisking a sauce or stirring a risotto, that particular task – in the instant that it is being performed – is all-consuming and all-important. Lose focus, and the dish will invariably suffer. The great chef is one who can multi-task and yet still ensure that each individual task receives his undivided attention when he is performing it.
We had no wine that night – a pity and a crying shame – because there was still work to be done after, and miles to go before we slept. Yet Lo Scalco was a pleasant experience, aided by the fact that we walked in without a reservation. There are precious few restaurants of this quality, especially in New York, where one can do this. It certainly begged questioning, but I suspect that now that the Guide Michelin has awarded it a star; once the Times reviews it the rest of New York will be all over it.
***Footnote: Once again the curse of the commentator strikes - I have been informed that Lo Scalco will be closing its Tribeca location soon. Apparently there is a move on the cards, to a Midtown location, but well. Que sera, sera.
313 Church Street
New York, NY 10013
212-343-2900
There is something about finding out a restaurant is a husband-and-wife operation that raises it somewhat in my estimation. It is as if the discovery reassures me that there was something personal, some love and devotion, some true feeling that inspired the opening of the restaurant; that it is not just another addition to some restaurant mogul’s portfolio. That warms my heart. I have recently been working out of New York City – where there is no shortage of good eats – and had the good fortune this past week to dine at just such an establishment.
The interior of Lo Scalco is beautiful - sleek, modern white walls and touches of black and muted brown, with Beaux-Arts arches, elaborate chandeliers and a classy marble bar. Designed by the wife of the chef and owner, after whose family the restaurant is lovingly and respectfully named, its most charming feature is the piping. It is left exposed, and camouflaged wittily amidst other horizontal fixtures across the high ceilings, in a very Brutalist sort of way, and it gives an edge to the elegance of the room – an edge that is, arguably, replicated in the food.
Lo Scalco’s menu is organised by region; there is an antipasto, primo and secondo for each region, that you mix and match for your meal. There are also some staples which, our waiter proclaims, the restaurant has never been able to take off the menu due to popular demand. One of these is the cannelloni with ricotta and artichokes, which I wound up getting. It certainly lived up to the hype – it was light and smooth and yet still packed a punch. I followed that with the rabbit – which was smothered perhaps a tad too much in fresh rosemary for my liking, but enjoyable nonetheless. Quantities aside, the cooking unconditionally espoused one of the main tenets of Italian cuisine – to let quality ingredients speak for themselves.
When it comes down to it, maybe cooking isn’t so difficult after all. What is difficult is finding fresh, local, quality ingredients.
Midway through our meal the chef comes out of the kitchen for what I can only assume is his periodic ritual of walking around and making sure things are running smoothly. You can tell that he is a chef almost immediately, and not from his toque and apron – although those do help. There are certain characteristics that are particular to each profession, and the practitioners of these professions are almost always indelibly marked. He had in his manner and comportment a singular focus and intensity – when he was walking one could tell that the foremost thing in his mind at that particular moment was getting from point A to point B. I think this is borne of working with food, where despite the need in a kitchen to manage and process a million different things happening at once, a million different entrees being prepared at once – when it comes down to it a chef must focus all his energies, at any given nanosecond, on the task that is at hand. Be it whisking a sauce or stirring a risotto, that particular task – in the instant that it is being performed – is all-consuming and all-important. Lose focus, and the dish will invariably suffer. The great chef is one who can multi-task and yet still ensure that each individual task receives his undivided attention when he is performing it.
We had no wine that night – a pity and a crying shame – because there was still work to be done after, and miles to go before we slept. Yet Lo Scalco was a pleasant experience, aided by the fact that we walked in without a reservation. There are precious few restaurants of this quality, especially in New York, where one can do this. It certainly begged questioning, but I suspect that now that the Guide Michelin has awarded it a star; once the Times reviews it the rest of New York will be all over it.
***Footnote: Once again the curse of the commentator strikes - I have been informed that Lo Scalco will be closing its Tribeca location soon. Apparently there is a move on the cards, to a Midtown location, but well. Que sera, sera.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Divine Providence
CAV
14 Imperial Place
Providence, RI 02903
401-751-9164
It is a strange and curious thing to experience the loss of something good. I was back in Providence, RI this past weekend for the alma mater's commencement and graduation festivities, and apart from the requisite getting wastyfaced and making an ass of myself in front of parents and professors alike - I also said what could be one final goodbye in a series of drawn-out farewells to some of my favourite places in Providence, one of which perhaps deserves a special mention.
On Saturday night my friend Reed's parents took me out to dinner at my favourite restaurant in Providence - a place called CAV. By way of background: CAV is a gem of a restaurant which is housed in what used to be an abandoned warehouse in the jewelry district, and also operates as an antique store. The name stands for “Coffee, Antiques, Victuals”, which for some reason still seems to elicit a smile from me to this day, even though I have been privy to that information for quite some time now. Everything in the restaurant - from the Venetian chandeliers to the tablecloths with the beautiful Native American prints - is for sale. The place is decorated with warm colours and bathed in lighting that is part sunset over water and part glowing embers. And the food, good god, the food. It is executed with the highest level of technical mastery but also with the utmost devotion and dedication. It is good food, done well, done with pride, care and - dare I say it - love. In summary, i have a huge boner for CAV.
(Side note: you will all be happy to note that I was extremely well-mannered at dinner and did not once reference any achievement of orgasm in my pantaloons, which itself may or may not have happened. Twice.)
We got to meet the owner - a matronly old lady wearing a long necklace of mismatched beads and a flowy black dress, her face wrinkled not by the passing of time but by her constant smile. She moved slowly but with purpose, her eyes by contrast constantly dancing across the room. As she comes to our table Reed's mum touches her arm and asks, "Do you own this place?"
She stops and sizes us up, then replies without a trace of irony, "No. It owns me."
She proceeds to tell us how and why she started the restaurant - as an act of defiance against stuffy fine dining in general and a denouncement of large, impersonal places with millions of different forks and glasses and an extended hierarchy of waiters and servers. One is never rushed through one's meal at CAV, they always let you sit for as long as you want, sipping and talking and picking at your plate. You can laugh as loud as you want. It is, and I quote her, "a port in the storm of everyday life". That, friends, I think is truer than you could ever imagine.
My point is, if you ever find yourselves in Providence - or back in Providence for some among you - please do yourselves a favour and bring somebody you love to CAV. As you may or may not know I eat out quite a fair bit, and to borrow a metaphor few other restaurants have ever come close to being a refuge from the noise and the confusion and the drudgery of the world. There is a bit in A Moveable Feast where Ernest Hemingway describes eating oysters and drinking white wine at his favourite restaurant after a long, draining day. He writes, "I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and make plans." That is exactly how I feel when I eat at CAV.
The irony of it all is that my second favourite restaurant in Providence (which I also visited this past weekend) is exactly the kind of sprawling, oak-paneled, dimly-lit restaurant with white tablecloths and a million different forks that takes itself very seriously. You might even call it the antithesis of CAV. It is called Mill's Tavern, and it is fucking amazing.
14 Imperial Place
Providence, RI 02903
401-751-9164
It is a strange and curious thing to experience the loss of something good. I was back in Providence, RI this past weekend for the alma mater's commencement and graduation festivities, and apart from the requisite getting wastyfaced and making an ass of myself in front of parents and professors alike - I also said what could be one final goodbye in a series of drawn-out farewells to some of my favourite places in Providence, one of which perhaps deserves a special mention.
On Saturday night my friend Reed's parents took me out to dinner at my favourite restaurant in Providence - a place called CAV. By way of background: CAV is a gem of a restaurant which is housed in what used to be an abandoned warehouse in the jewelry district, and also operates as an antique store. The name stands for “Coffee, Antiques, Victuals”, which for some reason still seems to elicit a smile from me to this day, even though I have been privy to that information for quite some time now. Everything in the restaurant - from the Venetian chandeliers to the tablecloths with the beautiful Native American prints - is for sale. The place is decorated with warm colours and bathed in lighting that is part sunset over water and part glowing embers. And the food, good god, the food. It is executed with the highest level of technical mastery but also with the utmost devotion and dedication. It is good food, done well, done with pride, care and - dare I say it - love. In summary, i have a huge boner for CAV.
(Side note: you will all be happy to note that I was extremely well-mannered at dinner and did not once reference any achievement of orgasm in my pantaloons, which itself may or may not have happened. Twice.)
We got to meet the owner - a matronly old lady wearing a long necklace of mismatched beads and a flowy black dress, her face wrinkled not by the passing of time but by her constant smile. She moved slowly but with purpose, her eyes by contrast constantly dancing across the room. As she comes to our table Reed's mum touches her arm and asks, "Do you own this place?"
She stops and sizes us up, then replies without a trace of irony, "No. It owns me."
She proceeds to tell us how and why she started the restaurant - as an act of defiance against stuffy fine dining in general and a denouncement of large, impersonal places with millions of different forks and glasses and an extended hierarchy of waiters and servers. One is never rushed through one's meal at CAV, they always let you sit for as long as you want, sipping and talking and picking at your plate. You can laugh as loud as you want. It is, and I quote her, "a port in the storm of everyday life". That, friends, I think is truer than you could ever imagine.
My point is, if you ever find yourselves in Providence - or back in Providence for some among you - please do yourselves a favour and bring somebody you love to CAV. As you may or may not know I eat out quite a fair bit, and to borrow a metaphor few other restaurants have ever come close to being a refuge from the noise and the confusion and the drudgery of the world. There is a bit in A Moveable Feast where Ernest Hemingway describes eating oysters and drinking white wine at his favourite restaurant after a long, draining day. He writes, "I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and make plans." That is exactly how I feel when I eat at CAV.
The irony of it all is that my second favourite restaurant in Providence (which I also visited this past weekend) is exactly the kind of sprawling, oak-paneled, dimly-lit restaurant with white tablecloths and a million different forks that takes itself very seriously. You might even call it the antithesis of CAV. It is called Mill's Tavern, and it is fucking amazing.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Summertime and the livin' is easy
s1. I know I love grilling more than life itself, but I am undecided as to whether I like springtime grilling or summer grilling better - there is, at least for me, a subtle difference. In the springtime I like to do smaller items, more vegetables and fish, perhaps; and keep it simple - no rubs, no oils, no marinades, just intrinsic flavours with that added smoky goodness. In the summer I like to do heartier stuff, large haunches of beef and lamb and meats in marinades - and to keep stuff on the grill longer for that sweet caramelized taste and that meat-falling-off-the-bone deliciousness.
Last night I stuffed a pair of rainbow trout with onion and garlic and mushrooms and breadcrumbs seasoned with lemon and thyme; then grilled them, covered, for what must have been 12 of the longest minutes of my life. I was jumping up and down in and out of my pants. I crosshatched the skin like I was taught to - I was, after all, taught by the best - and threw on a side of green beans to cook in the last few minutes. I know you are supposed to always let meats rest a couple of minutes after removing from the grill to let the juices return to the surface, for meat that is more moist and juicy - but goddamn it, I can never wait that long. I always just want to pick it up straight off the grill and stuff my face with my bare hands.
2. I often wonder why perfectly competent home chefs like myself still crave eating out so much. There are just so many reasons; I should keep a list, really, but my latest fascination is with the pacing of the meal. This is something that Ember in Singapore, Mills Tavern in Providence and Cashion's Eat Place in DC - collectively some of my favourite restaurants - have honed to a science. At these places more than most I have always had meals paced perfectly - course after course served at just the right intervals to allow for digestion and pleasant conversation, the food always still at the right temperature when it gets to your table. It is so hard for the home chef - unless he is not sitting down to eat as well - to plan and time multiple courses perfectly. It is a small thing, sure, but the best restaurants do even the smallest things well.
Last night I stuffed a pair of rainbow trout with onion and garlic and mushrooms and breadcrumbs seasoned with lemon and thyme; then grilled them, covered, for what must have been 12 of the longest minutes of my life. I was jumping up and down in and out of my pants. I crosshatched the skin like I was taught to - I was, after all, taught by the best - and threw on a side of green beans to cook in the last few minutes. I know you are supposed to always let meats rest a couple of minutes after removing from the grill to let the juices return to the surface, for meat that is more moist and juicy - but goddamn it, I can never wait that long. I always just want to pick it up straight off the grill and stuff my face with my bare hands.
2. I often wonder why perfectly competent home chefs like myself still crave eating out so much. There are just so many reasons; I should keep a list, really, but my latest fascination is with the pacing of the meal. This is something that Ember in Singapore, Mills Tavern in Providence and Cashion's Eat Place in DC - collectively some of my favourite restaurants - have honed to a science. At these places more than most I have always had meals paced perfectly - course after course served at just the right intervals to allow for digestion and pleasant conversation, the food always still at the right temperature when it gets to your table. It is so hard for the home chef - unless he is not sitting down to eat as well - to plan and time multiple courses perfectly. It is a small thing, sure, but the best restaurants do even the smallest things well.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Dining early
Cashion's Eat Place
1819 Columbia Rd NW
Washington, DC 20009
202-797-1819
I count myself among those who consider dinner the largest meal of the day, and I find it positively barbaric when circumstances decree upon myself and my dining companions an early dinner – I am of the belief that my dessert fork should not have to set itself on the table before the sun does over the horizon. There are however, restaurants – and occasions, needless to say – on whose accounts this idiosyncrasy can be relaxed, and Cashion’s Eat Place is one of them. My friend Kevin was visiting in town this past weekend – a last-minute trip that provoked a last-minute plea of desperation to the hostess at Cashion’s. They could accommodate us, a table of 3 – us two and Sarah – but unfortunately only at 5.30pm. Shocking, I know. Some of us are barely done with lunch at that time.
Cashion’s is a place I bring visiting friends and gourmands to whenever it falls upon me to show off the wonders of DC. It is one of those restaurants that immediately feel familiar, even if you are stepping into it for the first time. I think it quite the compliment that I can never quite remember the exact colour of the walls – are they pink? orange? mauve? – for when I am in there the physical space just seems to melt away, and I am at a dinner table I have always been at, with friends and family I have always dined with. The food is quality – I have a sweet spot for the veal sweetbreads – and the staff always pleasant. Finally, if you have heard the story of Ann Cashion you will know that she was two years away from a PhD in English at Stanford but gave it all up to pursue her dream of cooking professionally. She may kind of be my hero.
So an early dinner it is, at Cashion’s, and it does not disappoint. I had the duck, but I sometimes enjoy it more when someone else at the table orders something that turns out to be much better than your own choice, like that one time in Bologna when Annie got the pumpkin ravioli which were really orgasms in disguise. It's almost as if just because you only get that one forkful, that one taste - that it inevitably has to taste better. I refer, of course, to Sarah’s halibut, which was that perfect texture between crumbly and firm, moist and meaty. Fish is a delicate thing, with so little margin for error, and it is a momentous occasion when it is done well. Mishandling it, as I no doubt have many times, is nothing short of a gross sin.
So all’s well that ends well, and the best part about Cashion’s is that it is literally a stone’s throw from any number of establishments that serve alcohol and encourage booty-shaking into the night. In our defense: we are young, and have a whole lifetime of mistakes to make.
***Footnote: I also want to admit that unless you are not averse to making a fool of yourself, I am perhaps not the best of dining companions. There are many reasons why: I like to make a pompous jackass of myself at the dinner table and savour every ritual, I like to talk to bartenders and waiters and have been known to insist that they share in our bottle(s) of wine. Sarah is much the same way, which is why we get along so famously. But even Sarah had to hide her face in shame and ignominy at my latest indiscretion: as our waitress graciously topped my wine glass off in the middle of our meal, I looked her straight in the eye and said, without irony, “Thank you. You’re like an angel, in the darkness.”
Is that so wrong?
1819 Columbia Rd NW
Washington, DC 20009
202-797-1819
I count myself among those who consider dinner the largest meal of the day, and I find it positively barbaric when circumstances decree upon myself and my dining companions an early dinner – I am of the belief that my dessert fork should not have to set itself on the table before the sun does over the horizon. There are however, restaurants – and occasions, needless to say – on whose accounts this idiosyncrasy can be relaxed, and Cashion’s Eat Place is one of them. My friend Kevin was visiting in town this past weekend – a last-minute trip that provoked a last-minute plea of desperation to the hostess at Cashion’s. They could accommodate us, a table of 3 – us two and Sarah – but unfortunately only at 5.30pm. Shocking, I know. Some of us are barely done with lunch at that time.
Cashion’s is a place I bring visiting friends and gourmands to whenever it falls upon me to show off the wonders of DC. It is one of those restaurants that immediately feel familiar, even if you are stepping into it for the first time. I think it quite the compliment that I can never quite remember the exact colour of the walls – are they pink? orange? mauve? – for when I am in there the physical space just seems to melt away, and I am at a dinner table I have always been at, with friends and family I have always dined with. The food is quality – I have a sweet spot for the veal sweetbreads – and the staff always pleasant. Finally, if you have heard the story of Ann Cashion you will know that she was two years away from a PhD in English at Stanford but gave it all up to pursue her dream of cooking professionally. She may kind of be my hero.
So an early dinner it is, at Cashion’s, and it does not disappoint. I had the duck, but I sometimes enjoy it more when someone else at the table orders something that turns out to be much better than your own choice, like that one time in Bologna when Annie got the pumpkin ravioli which were really orgasms in disguise. It's almost as if just because you only get that one forkful, that one taste - that it inevitably has to taste better. I refer, of course, to Sarah’s halibut, which was that perfect texture between crumbly and firm, moist and meaty. Fish is a delicate thing, with so little margin for error, and it is a momentous occasion when it is done well. Mishandling it, as I no doubt have many times, is nothing short of a gross sin.
So all’s well that ends well, and the best part about Cashion’s is that it is literally a stone’s throw from any number of establishments that serve alcohol and encourage booty-shaking into the night. In our defense: we are young, and have a whole lifetime of mistakes to make.
***Footnote: I also want to admit that unless you are not averse to making a fool of yourself, I am perhaps not the best of dining companions. There are many reasons why: I like to make a pompous jackass of myself at the dinner table and savour every ritual, I like to talk to bartenders and waiters and have been known to insist that they share in our bottle(s) of wine. Sarah is much the same way, which is why we get along so famously. But even Sarah had to hide her face in shame and ignominy at my latest indiscretion: as our waitress graciously topped my wine glass off in the middle of our meal, I looked her straight in the eye and said, without irony, “Thank you. You’re like an angel, in the darkness.”
Is that so wrong?
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Etouffee and the agony of eating alone
As i write it is 8:33pm Eastern Time on the eighteenth of April in the year 2006; and I just made and ate etouffee with crab meat and sausage. Not that I want to toot my own horn or anything, but it was so good it made me bust a nut in my pantaloons.
First I seared the sausages in a pan, then removed them to cook in the oven. I added butter to the rendered fat and tempered the mixture with paprika and pepper. I left the fat on high heat until I could smell the nutty, almost-woody smell of burning butter and could see wisps of smoke coming from the pan. Then I took the pan off the heat, added flour and whisked it to make a roux. So apparently the longer you cook a roux three things happen: a) it becomes darker, b) it loses its thickening ability and most importantly of all c) it becomes more flavourful.
If there are some things in the realm of the culinary arts that I think I am reasonably competent at - making a roux is probably one of them. After all, I was trained by the best. So I cooked my roux till it was a deep honey brown - the colour of delicious - and then threw in garlic, onions, green peppers, mushrooms and crabmeat. I seasoned it like there was no tomorrow and cooked the onions and mushrooms down before adding stock. A little while after that I took the sausages out of the oven and sliced them into pieces before adding them into the etouffee. Then I let it reduce while making rice. Approximately twenty minutes later I had my dinner. By myself.
Holy crap, it was better than sex.
That first taste was like someone smacked me across the face and I had to sit down. I know that I probably say that I come in my pantaloons too often and that it is a crass and overly graphic expression that nobody needs to hear, but this really warranted it. And it absolutely killed me, absolutely gutted me to pieces that i had nobody to share this with. It was a curious feeling, like I had stumbled upon a treasure and wanted so much to give it away but did not have anyone to take it. It is a feeling i have only ever gotten with food. Now, I travel a fair bit for work, and am no stranger to eating alone - but to experience an amazing meal and not have anyone else to eat it with you is sin visited upon sin.
Well anyway - that's my rant. Now I probably should go clean up my pants - you thought i was being figurative, didn't you?
And yes, Morgan, I then had to do the dishes.
All.
By.
Myself.
First I seared the sausages in a pan, then removed them to cook in the oven. I added butter to the rendered fat and tempered the mixture with paprika and pepper. I left the fat on high heat until I could smell the nutty, almost-woody smell of burning butter and could see wisps of smoke coming from the pan. Then I took the pan off the heat, added flour and whisked it to make a roux. So apparently the longer you cook a roux three things happen: a) it becomes darker, b) it loses its thickening ability and most importantly of all c) it becomes more flavourful.
If there are some things in the realm of the culinary arts that I think I am reasonably competent at - making a roux is probably one of them. After all, I was trained by the best. So I cooked my roux till it was a deep honey brown - the colour of delicious - and then threw in garlic, onions, green peppers, mushrooms and crabmeat. I seasoned it like there was no tomorrow and cooked the onions and mushrooms down before adding stock. A little while after that I took the sausages out of the oven and sliced them into pieces before adding them into the etouffee. Then I let it reduce while making rice. Approximately twenty minutes later I had my dinner. By myself.
Holy crap, it was better than sex.
That first taste was like someone smacked me across the face and I had to sit down. I know that I probably say that I come in my pantaloons too often and that it is a crass and overly graphic expression that nobody needs to hear, but this really warranted it. And it absolutely killed me, absolutely gutted me to pieces that i had nobody to share this with. It was a curious feeling, like I had stumbled upon a treasure and wanted so much to give it away but did not have anyone to take it. It is a feeling i have only ever gotten with food. Now, I travel a fair bit for work, and am no stranger to eating alone - but to experience an amazing meal and not have anyone else to eat it with you is sin visited upon sin.
Well anyway - that's my rant. Now I probably should go clean up my pants - you thought i was being figurative, didn't you?
And yes, Morgan, I then had to do the dishes.
All.
By.
Myself.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Party over here!
Last night Laura and Amanda came over for dinner and Amanda spent the better part of two hours making me laugh uncontrollably and of course, laughing uncontrollably herself. It is a wonder I managed to keep my food down. We had a savoury tart - something quite ambitious for me because it is not a technique that I am particularly comfortable with - and a salad that Amanda and I piled heaping mounds of BBQ pulled pork on. For my point is that Laura is vegetarian and always a pain in the butt to cook for (but a lovely one at that); because I usually make meat on the side and I use a different set of utensils and kitchen implements to make the vegetarian portion of the meal - I am dorky like that - and thus end up with a mountain of dishes. Anyway, in summary I made something that I'd never made before and it actually turned out pretty well, so here is the recipe.
Caramelized onion and butternut squash triple cheese tart
2 red onions
1 butternut squash
fresh sage, finely chopped
fresh thyme, finely chopped
a small thing of goat cheese
a small thing of fontina
equal amount of gruyere, grated
1 egg, beaten
breadcrumbs
slab of butter
2 store-bought pie crusts
Preheat oven to 375F. Take one pie crust, lay it flat and set aside. Slice squash in two and seed. Drizzle with olive oil and roast in the oven, cut side down, for 40 minutes or until soft. Meanwhile chop onions thinly and cook in butter and half the thyme, over low heat for 35-40 minutes or until glazed. Add butter and/or a teeny bit of red wine if they look like they're drying out. Once the squash is done, scoop it out of the skin and combine with onions, herbs, egg, breadcrumbs and cheese. Mix well and spread into the pie crust. Take the other pie crust that you've laid flat and use it to cover the one with the filling. Bake in oven for 30 minutes or until crust is golden brown. Cool and serve.
It was great served warm but I kept leftovers in the fridge and am going to eat it cold tonight. I can't wait.
Caramelized onion and butternut squash triple cheese tart
2 red onions
1 butternut squash
fresh sage, finely chopped
fresh thyme, finely chopped
a small thing of goat cheese
a small thing of fontina
equal amount of gruyere, grated
1 egg, beaten
breadcrumbs
slab of butter
2 store-bought pie crusts
Preheat oven to 375F. Take one pie crust, lay it flat and set aside. Slice squash in two and seed. Drizzle with olive oil and roast in the oven, cut side down, for 40 minutes or until soft. Meanwhile chop onions thinly and cook in butter and half the thyme, over low heat for 35-40 minutes or until glazed. Add butter and/or a teeny bit of red wine if they look like they're drying out. Once the squash is done, scoop it out of the skin and combine with onions, herbs, egg, breadcrumbs and cheese. Mix well and spread into the pie crust. Take the other pie crust that you've laid flat and use it to cover the one with the filling. Bake in oven for 30 minutes or until crust is golden brown. Cool and serve.
It was great served warm but I kept leftovers in the fridge and am going to eat it cold tonight. I can't wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
