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?

Lunch in the Afternoon

Persimmon
7003 Wisconsin Avenue
Chevy Chase, MD 20815
301-654-9860

It seems a great pity that few people take the time for lunch any more; I myself have often been guilty of this trespass. Yet lunch is a meal too, which makes it one of only so many we get in a lifetime, and it is rather a waste to ignore it or not to give it its due. For – assuming quality as a given, naturally – the one thing I ask of my meals is that they be unhurried.

Simon was in town yesterday briefly before he headed back to Providence, and we caught up over lunch. He chose, at his mother’s suggestion, Persimmon – remarking as we sat down that this was an old favourite and that they served a lunch worthy of a proper meal. For my part, I was just glad to sit down to lunch, a lunch complete with water glasses and multiple forks and starched napkins.

Persimmon is in the Bethesda-Chevy Chase area, an area that smacks somewhat of the new and artificial. I always think that there isn’t anything up there but hotels and chain retail and restaurants, but I am often pleasantly surprised. The restaurant is dubbed as a ‘New American bistro’ – which makes me wince a little, but I recover in time to appreciate the warm golden-orange walls – persimmon, from the name of the restaurant – with splashes of inviting yellows. The hostess, an older woman, had a light, pattering step and an eager manner, and her silvery tresses danced just atop her shoulders as she led us to our table.

I have known Simon for a long time now, and when I first met him he had that infectious, boyish brashness of youth, quite arresting in its warmth, its unguardedness and lack of pretense; capable of putting anyone at ease. His was a personality that reached out to you, singular in its eccentricities, and he possessed that uncommon inability to leave a room unmarked by his entry. He spoke with a wonderful turn of phrase, and was a lovely conversationalist. Later when I met his mother for the first of many times I understood where it all came from. Yet as the years had gone by he had mellowed somewhat, and had become more considered in his speech, more deliberate in his manner. At times during the meal he took on that absent air of one who has great responsibility. He was still Simon, but perhaps he had grown up a little.

I have a great affection for him though, and as the conversation fell into step I felt that relief that comes with eating at a familiar table. The calamari was superb, sautéd lightly and adorned with nicoise tomatoes and a pumpkin seed pesto, served atop a bed of rosemary polenta. The polenta was rich and creamy yet bore a lightness that betrayed the skill of the chef’s hand. Together they made for a wonderful combination of flavours. Simon and I also shared the duck confit appetiser with flageolet beans, a dish perhaps too heavy for lunch but nevertheless extremely tasty.

We owe the concept of a bistro to the French, whose country is littered with small cafés or restaurants that serve simple, modest and down-to-earth fare which warms the body as much as it does the soul. Persimmon had on its menu a nicoise salad and the classic steak frites – both nods to traditional bistro fare – as well as a bouillabaisse that hinted at the chef’s fascination with all things French. It was the latter that Simon made me get, recommending it with a raw enthusiasm I have learnt to distrust in people. Knowledge begets consideration; most often those who are overly animated are also overly ignorant. When the dish came it was a massive plate of mussels and shrimp and squid in a golden broth, daunting just to look at. It went quickly, though - I made a veritable fist of finishing it - and I was impressed by the freshness of the ingredients.

When I used to wait tables, I always had a soft spot for that bittersweet moment after dinner had been eaten and cleared. I probably did not wait enough tables to get jaded, and so I would always involuntarily share a little in the dining experience of those I waited on. There is something about that little window after the busboy cleared the plates away – and on slow nights I would always try to check myself and time my reappearance to allow for that extra beat, so that people could tie up loose ends, could find the last, definitive word on the night’s conversation. On busy nights however, as any waiter worth his salt can tell you, just getting to the table at all is an admirable feat. As a diner, I am more than familiar with the feeling: it is like having an unspeakable loss hit you, and realising that the loss had been, little by little, a long time coming. Whatever the case, I almost always felt like the absolute devil when I would return to a table, not because of the temptation I represented through the offering of the dessert menu, but because I was, in some sense, the one who drew the line at the end of their night.

Certainly that was how Simon and I viewed our waitress, who had been pleasantly anonymous until she came back and uttered those immortal words. She was, unwittingly, a cruel reminder that there was work to be done, and still a large part of the day to get through. That is, then, perhaps the only drawback to enjoying a good meal at lunchtime. Simon and I were stuffed, leaning back in our seats and making ungodly noises under our breath – but it always seems almost criminal not to at least take a look at the dessert menu. The rum-raisin bread pudding sounded divine, and Simon had wonderful things to say about the pumpkin cheesecake. I had no doubt about the quality of the offerings, but it was the middle of the day, and I had a girlish figure to maintain.

It was a good meal, with a good friend – and the restaurant is more than conducive to that. As we left we kept up the chatter, which in turn was prime evidence that the food, the surroundings, the service – the meal, essentially – had lightened our spirits. It had allowed us to connect in the most meaningful of ways, and to do that which only true friends do: make fun of one another. It was a charming place, and served good, hearty food. Who was it that once wrote that he liked his meals heavy and his women light? At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, I concur fully.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig

As a child in Singapore, Sunday mornings were always pleasant. My parents would rise before us, and make their weekly trip to the market for the week’s groceries. They would come back with all manner of foodstuff, raw and cooked, including a mini-feast which we would then have for breakfast. I remember lying in my bed, long wide awake but not yet ready to climb out; listening intently for the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. After breakfast we would all crawl guiltily back into our parents’ massive bed and laze together as a family, a tangle of arms and legs and full bellies as we half-slept, half-listened to the radio – or read our favourite section of the paper – equally comfortable in silence as in banter.

Sometimes my parents would bring me or us along on these trips to the market, which I now remember to be loud and crowded and boisterous – a veritable assault on all the senses – as well as being very, very wet. They would divvy up the tasks between them and then split up, reconvening later for a spot of breakfast or a drink. I remember my father always being extremely focused, going about his tasks with great efficiency and minimal pause. When I went along on these trips to the market, I would always tag along with him; he was a big man with an easy gait, but he walked in large strides which as a child I struggled to keep up with. He would try to always finish his tasks before my mother finished hers and then sit down to wait for her; hiding his irritation whenever I held him up. I used to think this was perhaps because he was the sort of person always so dedicated in his dealings that he did not like to spend any more time on anything than absolutely necessary; or perhaps he was a fiercely private person who cherished his time with himself in the few moments he had – alone with his thoughts – while waiting. These may all be true to some degree. But I realise now that he did this because he loved my mother very much, and had made it his prerogative in his life with her never to make her wait for him. I suppose it must have brought him joy each time, as he sat there enjoying his coffee, to see her striding towards him – as if he had let her go and she had come back to him.

The wet market is a worldwide phenomenon, but distinctly different everywhere. In Asia at least, these markets are a collection of stalls and booths – earthy and noisy, throbbing with a communal gaiety. Through narrow and crowded alleys that are either dimly lit or flooded with fluorescent light – never in between – one may find all manner of comestibles for sale, from fresh produce to live poultry. Periodically the floors and surroundings are sprayed and washed with water – sometimes to the extent of flooding – all in the name of keeping the premises clean and sanitary and thus giving the wet markets their name and defining characteristic. There are stalls upon stalls of cabbages and cauliflower, the occasional cage of squawking chickens or tank of live fish; pushcarts of produce appearing out of nowhere with drivers both raucous and reckless. Transactions are carried out at top voice, as if shouting were the only way of getting things done.

Wet markets in Singapore are typically laid out into separate and distinct areas – method in the madness, perhaps. The heart of the wet market – stalls arranged in grids with vendors selling fruits, vegetables, meat and fish and dairy and live animals – is where the madness is at its most intense. This is where the ballet of human traffic, and the cacophony of human interaction, is at its fiercest and most relentless. Beyond this section is usually a buffer zone of vendors selling dried goods and sundry items. Here, it is usually calmer and quieter, and one may find anything from herbal medicine to household supplies. Beyond that even are the cooked food vendors – each hawking a different dish or delicacy as is their specialty. There are tables to sit at, and the sounds of chatter and conversation are always in the air; for it is as much a meeting place as it is an eating place. It is a curious phenomenon, however, in Singapore that in areas with al fresco dining – as is often the case in these areas of the wet market – the tables, chairs and stools are invariably affixed to the ground. I suppose one cannot trust Singaporeans to leave well enough alone and not make off with these items.

I was home recently for a holiday, and made up my mind to follow my mother on one of her excursions to the wet market. There had been transformations aplenty in the Singaporean landscape since I was last back, and I felt as one would coming back to a friend, maybe a lover, after one has been away from a long time. In this as in so much else I was discovering that less and less was to be taken for granted. I was curious to see what changes had been wrought on the wet market – seemingly a relic of the past, struggling to remain relevant as the demographic grew younger and more inclined towards the pre-packaged convenience that supermarkets offer. Besides, my mother and I were going to make a feast that night, and there was much to be done in the way of preparation.

The market that my mother got her fish from – she has different favourites for different things – was temporarily closed for renovation, and the vendors had been relocated en masse to an interim structure. It was a large shelter-type construct spanning about three city blocks, with a corrugated zinc roof – the kind that amplifies the sound of raindrops whenever it rains. The ceilings were high, and spotted with fans that spun lazily and not at all in any sort of tandem. There were no walls to speak of, and one could wander into the market through any number of entrances, and exit through any number of others. It had been neatly broken into sections to accommodate the different vendors, and from the volume of the chatter and the dampness of the ground in each, one could easily tell where one was.

We started, then, by looking for fish. Seafood played a large part in my diet growing up; they do weird and wonderful things to it where I am from. Sometimes they do nothing at all to it, and it is enough. There were stalls lined up next to each other with their cleaned, gutted and filleted wares laid out, with tanks of murky water on the ground containing more fish. I was taught to look at the eyes of the fish to tell how fresh it is, and as I handled those available for sale, thumbing the area behind the gills, even I could tell that all the fish for sale had been caught not too long ago, and killed the day of. In markets like these you can request that the vendor kill and prepare a fresh fish for you; and then go away and do the rest of your shopping to come back later to fillets that are washed, scaled, cut and wrapped in newspaper for you.

Or you can stay and watch the carnage. I saw an old woman of nearly sixty engrossed in her task of preparing a fish, to the point of being oblivious to all that was going around her – which was in itself quite a feat. She had that hunch that people develop after years of intense concentration on something, her shoulders arching forward and upward ever slightly and contorting her wide frame. She held a large meat cleaver with a blade about the size of my face, and that was all she really needed. As I watched, she did not switch knives as she moved from task to task, but rather wielded her cleaver expertly – now a series of short, swift flicks and thrusts, now long graceful arcs up and down with the weight of habit, later sliding neatly through the meat in quick successive wrist motions – adjusting to the delicacy of the cut required. She moved with great economy and it was a pleasure to watch. There was a familiarity in the manner of her work that betrayed a comfort in her natural environment. I stood by, mesmerised in the audience of one as the usual market clamouring went on about the two of us. I felt a great happiness for her as I realised that she was in her element every day that she was at work.

Walking on through the market I was struck by how bright and inviting the colours seemed to be. The juicy greens of vegetables, brilliant purples of eggplants; even the beige shells of the eggs on sale seemed to be more vivid than I recalled of specimens elsewhere. The woman next to us at the egg stall spent an eternity picking and choosing a dozen eggs from the many cartons laid out in front of us – feeling each egg in the small of her hand, running her thumb lightly across its surface, with a troubled look on her face as she contemplated the worthiness of each contender. She was only going to buy a dozen eggs, but by golly they were going to be the best 12 eggs that were available.

The woman’s simple, insistent dedication to freshness and ingredient quality was heart-warming, and reaffirmed, for me, the relevance of wet markets such as these in the modern age. As long as there are restaurateurs and home cooks who would rather select and prepare some of – if not all – their own ingredients rather than use items store-bought and prepackaged; as long as people resist compromising quality for convenience – the wet market will survive. As long as cooking, and eating, retains its soul – and remains more a salve to the human spirit than just a means of survival – there will always be the wet market.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

“…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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)