I invited Kerry and Allison over for dinner the other night, and it wound up gnawing at me for quite a while after. Kerry has always been a hard one to cook for – she is mildly allergic to wheat and dairy. Among other things this means no butter and no cream, no bread and no pasta. How she stays alive, much less manage to once be a varsity tennis rockstar, is beyond me. It is kind of like an Iron Chef challenge cooking for her. I comfort myself by reasoning that working with these obstructions makes me a better cook. Sometimes this is the case, sometimes not. This past Sunday she sprang another surprise on me – when, barely eight hours before dinner, she announced that she had also turned vegan recently.
It was a good thing I hadn’t planned the meal yet, but as I wandered the aisles of Whole Foods I despaired over and over again. Was honey vegan? Could I add it to the pesto I wanted to make? I had planned on an onion and apple tart until I realised that I couldn’t use pastry dough. At least I didn’t need to stop at the meat or seafood counters – the two areas I usually spend the most time in.
As I made the meal it struck me how much my level of comfort with unfamiliar ingredients translated into more work. With onions, for example, I know how to cut them quickly and easily. I can sense how long and at what heat I need to cook them for them to caramelize beautifully – and what to do to aid in the process (periodically adding teaspoons of brown sugar after at least ten minutes of cooking; it brings out the natural sweetness in the onions). I know that thyme goes well with onions. To me they are dependable, like trusted lieutenants, for I know exactly what I get from them and how to get it. When I work with them – I don’t think, I just do.
This is not quite so for other ingredients that I seldom work with. Lentils are an example – I have to keep checking on them to make sure I do not over-boil them. What kind of lentils are the best, or what should I use for soups or to eat loose? I am still trying to work out how much I should spice them – the lentil patties that I made this time lacked a kick – perhaps more cumin the next time?
That night I made an onion soup for Kerry, as well as lentil patties and Brussels sprouts marinated in balsamic vinegar, both grilled over high heat. For the meat-eaters and lovers, I made squid, lightly saut̩ed with pesto and tomatoes and lots of olive oil. Everything came with a side of polenta. I had made a fist of it, but after everyone left it hurt me how I could have done better with the food, and how everyone had been too nice to say so to my face. The basil I used for the pesto, for example, was not strong enough Рon hindsight I ought to have salted it more or used less pinenuts. Just about the only thing that was enjoyable was the polenta, which was probably because there was a minimum to be done there.
The story of the night was, unsurprisingly, one that revolved around food – somewhat. I had been on a train coming back to DC recently, when I had sat next to a young lady who had had a sweatshirt on that said FAIRFIELD, in large block ivy-print letters. I can only suppose she went to school there. But as I sat down and glanced over at her, the way her sweatshirt folded about made me think that it said FALAFEL, and I burst into quite uncontrollable laughter. It was a good thing that the lady had a sense of humour, and I had just about enough charm to convince her that I wasn’t staring at her chest and laughing. When I finally calmed down I texted Margaret, and we agreed that we both had to now somehow procure sweatshirts that did say FALAFEL on them. This is now a work in progress.
The company was delightful and that saved the evening, but I got to thinking about all the foods I just had no experience in working with. Winter is beginning to turn into spring here, and I am looking forward to working with spring foods. Beets and figs are next up on my list, and with enough luck and a whole lot of practice, I may be able to call myself a halfway decent cook.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Be the best at what you do, and be kind to those who are not
Java House
1645 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-387-6622
There is a coffee shop a few blocks down from where I live that I frequent, and hold dear to my heart. In the past year they have tried to diversify their menu, adding an array of wraps, melts and sandwiches to the pastries that they offered before. They even do homemade seasonal soups now – a turkey three-bean chili in the cold months, and chilled gazpacho when it is nice out. I have tried, with every fiber of my being, to bring myself to like their offerings, for I like writing and working there, and am addicted to their coffee. But – and the finality of this pronouncement pains me – but nothing is really very good there.
When I first discovered the Java House and made it my local coffee place, it was the final piece in me being able to call myself a resident of this fine city (the other prerequisites being a local dive bar and a magazine subscription). It had filled a void in my life created by the move away from Providence and with it, Coffee Exchange on Wickenden. I had shopped around – there are options aplenty around where I live, but none with the personality of the Java House. The wonderful lady who ran the counter had a conspiratorial sparkle in her eyes that made me feel young and restless again, and our first conversation centered around the days when she used to live in Ethiopia and roast her own coffee beans out of a saucepan. These days, there is a coffee roaster – the first thing you see walking in – and they roast their own beans daily in the late mornings, after the morning rush. If you stop by the machine and take a deep breath as it is going, you can catch – if you concentrate hard enough – a whiff of the heavenly.
It is hard to say just quite when, and why, a coffee place, or a restaurant, or a bar, becomes more than the sum of its four walls, but it is a joy to experience when it does happen. The Java House is sparsely decorated and functionally equipped at best, and is less than overwhelming at first blush. There are no couches, only stiff-backed counter-style chairs. I have spent long periods of time in the corner where the outlets are, and I want to say that they only have five mix CDs in their repertoire. Needless to say I have heard them all multiple times. Yet in spite of all that, there is a charm about the place that transcends its physical space. The regulars are quirky and include a whole slew of families and housewives who bring their babies in, complete with strollers and bonnets. There is almost always a meaningful conversation going on in the place, as there is almost always someone tippy-tapping away at their computers. The waitress does this cute thing where she raises her speaking voice when she is on her cell phone, as if distrustful of the technological capability of the modern-day cellular telephone. It kind of makes me feel like I am in a bad movie set in 1982. The place, really, is like the ungainly kid who dresses badly and is average at everything, but who you want on your team anyway because he is just such a stand-up guy.
And then there is the coffee. God, the coffee. The house blend has a distinctive sweetness layered over the bitter coffee bean taste; not quite nearly as bitter or dark or powerful as I would like, but it comes closer than almost anything else I have tried within a six-block radius. It has a wholeness of flavour that is consistent from the second it hits your lips through to the swallow. The roasting gives it a burnt taste which lingers on your tongue for minutes. I usually have a double shot of espresso, but it drinks as smooth as a latte with whole milk would.
Apart from that though, as my original point was, nothing else is really very good there. The oatmeal cookie is baked hard and crunchy, rather than crumbly and chewy the way I like it. The sandwiches are basic and unimpressive. The chili is watery and too sweet; also, it has bits of corn in it. There is no greater faux pas. I could go on, but it pains me almost as much to write this as it did to actually eat their food.
I suppose, though, the same is true of almost all coffee places. I do not recall going to one which had both fabulous coffee and good food. Even the pastries at Coffee Exchange were less than spectacular. It must be either one or the other, all or nothing. They are, after all, coffee places that dabble in food on the side. Coffee is their core competency, and most if not all their energy, one would hope, should go into scouring the depths of Ethiopia and Rwanda and Sumatra and Brazil and Colombia for the finest beans available. For that, I am thankful.
I still go to the Java House, unwavering in my loyalty. Perhaps it is out of habit more than anything else, but the fact is that I forgive them their mediocrities.
I do want to say, though: is it really so hard to get a decent cookie around here?
1645 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-387-6622
There is a coffee shop a few blocks down from where I live that I frequent, and hold dear to my heart. In the past year they have tried to diversify their menu, adding an array of wraps, melts and sandwiches to the pastries that they offered before. They even do homemade seasonal soups now – a turkey three-bean chili in the cold months, and chilled gazpacho when it is nice out. I have tried, with every fiber of my being, to bring myself to like their offerings, for I like writing and working there, and am addicted to their coffee. But – and the finality of this pronouncement pains me – but nothing is really very good there.
When I first discovered the Java House and made it my local coffee place, it was the final piece in me being able to call myself a resident of this fine city (the other prerequisites being a local dive bar and a magazine subscription). It had filled a void in my life created by the move away from Providence and with it, Coffee Exchange on Wickenden. I had shopped around – there are options aplenty around where I live, but none with the personality of the Java House. The wonderful lady who ran the counter had a conspiratorial sparkle in her eyes that made me feel young and restless again, and our first conversation centered around the days when she used to live in Ethiopia and roast her own coffee beans out of a saucepan. These days, there is a coffee roaster – the first thing you see walking in – and they roast their own beans daily in the late mornings, after the morning rush. If you stop by the machine and take a deep breath as it is going, you can catch – if you concentrate hard enough – a whiff of the heavenly.
It is hard to say just quite when, and why, a coffee place, or a restaurant, or a bar, becomes more than the sum of its four walls, but it is a joy to experience when it does happen. The Java House is sparsely decorated and functionally equipped at best, and is less than overwhelming at first blush. There are no couches, only stiff-backed counter-style chairs. I have spent long periods of time in the corner where the outlets are, and I want to say that they only have five mix CDs in their repertoire. Needless to say I have heard them all multiple times. Yet in spite of all that, there is a charm about the place that transcends its physical space. The regulars are quirky and include a whole slew of families and housewives who bring their babies in, complete with strollers and bonnets. There is almost always a meaningful conversation going on in the place, as there is almost always someone tippy-tapping away at their computers. The waitress does this cute thing where she raises her speaking voice when she is on her cell phone, as if distrustful of the technological capability of the modern-day cellular telephone. It kind of makes me feel like I am in a bad movie set in 1982. The place, really, is like the ungainly kid who dresses badly and is average at everything, but who you want on your team anyway because he is just such a stand-up guy.
And then there is the coffee. God, the coffee. The house blend has a distinctive sweetness layered over the bitter coffee bean taste; not quite nearly as bitter or dark or powerful as I would like, but it comes closer than almost anything else I have tried within a six-block radius. It has a wholeness of flavour that is consistent from the second it hits your lips through to the swallow. The roasting gives it a burnt taste which lingers on your tongue for minutes. I usually have a double shot of espresso, but it drinks as smooth as a latte with whole milk would.
Apart from that though, as my original point was, nothing else is really very good there. The oatmeal cookie is baked hard and crunchy, rather than crumbly and chewy the way I like it. The sandwiches are basic and unimpressive. The chili is watery and too sweet; also, it has bits of corn in it. There is no greater faux pas. I could go on, but it pains me almost as much to write this as it did to actually eat their food.
I suppose, though, the same is true of almost all coffee places. I do not recall going to one which had both fabulous coffee and good food. Even the pastries at Coffee Exchange were less than spectacular. It must be either one or the other, all or nothing. They are, after all, coffee places that dabble in food on the side. Coffee is their core competency, and most if not all their energy, one would hope, should go into scouring the depths of Ethiopia and Rwanda and Sumatra and Brazil and Colombia for the finest beans available. For that, I am thankful.
I still go to the Java House, unwavering in my loyalty. Perhaps it is out of habit more than anything else, but the fact is that I forgive them their mediocrities.
I do want to say, though: is it really so hard to get a decent cookie around here?
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