Great Expectations

“When I made a cake I had the best ingredients, the best chocolate, the best butter. You feel it when you are making that kind of cake. You want to deliver that yourself to the customer. You want to say: 'This is a gift from me. Take it. This is everything I have.'" – Michel Richard

Michel Richard Citronelle
3000 M St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-625-2150

It is an unfortunate circumstance that the weight of expectation can sometimes crush an otherwise perfectly enjoyable experience. I have been to too many restaurants where a combination of reviews from other people and my own – sometimes unrealistic – expectations have not been met, resulting in me walking away somewhat disappointed. It is perhaps a harsh way to judge a restaurant, but it is unavoidable.

By all accounts my dinner at Citronelle was set up to fail this way. I had, for as long as I have lived in DC, heard only glowing recommendations about this place. I had made the reservation two months in advance, and had spent all that time reading about Michel Richard and his food. I must have spent a good three hours perusing the winelist beforehand to pick out what I wanted to try, and what was good value for money. If this meal had been anything short of extraordinary, I would have been let down. Yet I am happy to report that this bastion of Washington cuisine was everything I expected it to be, and more.

It was my birthday this past weekend, and several good friends indulged me by visiting. Morgan, Reed and Simon all made the trip down from New York, while Matthew came back from Pittsburgh. It was a reunion of sorts, perhaps made a little bittersweet by my impending departure. Personally, it was also my theoretical last day at work. So there was a lot to celebrate and commemorate, and as I dressed for the event (Citronelle has a jacket-required dress code for gentlemen) I thought it only fitting to wear a suit and tie.

Citronelle is located right-smack in the middle of Georgetown, within a boutique hotel called the Latham Hotel. The building façade is perhaps not the most attractive – a block-ish, staid red brick building that is somewhat lackluster next to its architecturally diverse counterparts on M St. But upon walking in we get that sense of being transported – the lighting is warmer, the background noise more restrained than on the busy street we had just left behind.

It was not only appropriate to start with some champagne, but rather necessary, I thought. In addition to the big houses Citronelle had a sizeable list of small grower-producers, which was very intriguing. I did not know enough about these to make a decision and so went with the “Brut Premier” – a non-vintage champagne and the lowest-end offering from Louis Roederer, the same house that makes Cristal. Now, I am not a regular drinker of champagne and do not know enough about it to comment but this was really delightful. This had more vinosity, more character than the champagnes and sparkling wine I am used to – and I could actually appreciate it as a wine in addition to appreciating it as a glass of bubbly. It was very cool, very smooth, with hints of golden apple and the finish was longer than I was used to in champagne.

I put our sommelier in charge of the actual wine selection after that – while specifying what I wanted. We were going to go champagne, white Burgundy, red Burgundy and then finish up with a Bordeaux – and I told him what I liked in each of those wines. Sometimes expectation can work wonders. As you grow older you learn how to manage people, and get the best out of them. Nobody likes being told what to do and how to do it – and they like it even less if the person who does it either micro-manages or is too prescriptive. Far better, I think, to outline the parameters of what you want, and give people the freedom of expression and the expectation to produce. I think most people will surprise you if they were only given that expectation of producing greatness. Our sommelier certainly did bring us some beautiful wines, toasted our health with each bottle, and was an all-round credit to his profession.

It is always difficult deciding what to order, and this task was made even more so with the lack of detail on the menu. None of the dishes were described in more than seven words, with mentions only of the major ingredients and then sometimes not even that. I liked to think this allowed for creativity in the kitchen – where the chefs could change the preparation of any given dish on any given day – and it certainly allowed for some banter with our servers to discuss our options. As we were to find out, it really didn’t matter that the food wasn’t described well on the menu because everything was incredible and it didn’t matter whatever you picked because whatever choice you made was sure to please.

We weren’t made to wait long for our appetizers, which arrived with minimal pomp and splendor. Reed and I both got the Lobster “Begula” pasta, which consisted of tiny balls of pasta dyed in squid ink to resemble caviar and served in a can. It was apparently a house signature and characteristic of Michel Richard’s culinary wit, a trompe l’oeil dish that confounded your expectations. Hidden under the layer of pasta were chunks of lobster meat and a poached egg that held the mixture together. The can was plated in the middle of ellipse-shaped ice cubes – and was an indication of the dedication to presentation so evident in the kitchen’s cooking. The pasta was done to the perfect texture – difficult when you consider its miniature size, and the lobster perfectly seasoned to bring out and not mask its natural flavour.

Hunter and Simon both got the abalone, which I was surprised to see on the menu. Abalone is a highly prized food, almost revered, in Eastern civilizations, and a treat for special occasions back home. It is, however, not used extensively here. It has a meaty texture and absorbs flavour very well while retaining its own distinctive mildness, making it the perfect conduit for many intricate preparations. At Citronelle it came with cubes of cuttlefish and crunchy daikon radish. The saltiness of the cuttlefish was a perfect foil for the abalone, which was in turn perfectly cooked and a pleasure to sink your teeth into.

But the standout appetizer was surely the “Mosaic” surf and turf that both Morgan and Matthew ordered. This was individual carpaccio circles of beef, scallop, eel, radish and salmon, arranged in an explosion of colour. On the square plate, it resembled a stained glass tile and was absolutely stunning in its presentation. It did not flatter to deceive, either. The one bite I had of the eel was heavenly, a punch of tart citrus, savoury umami and an underlying sweetness that enhanced the flavour of the meat. Words could do the Mosaic no justice, and I had to search Flickr for a photo of this dish that we almost did not order if not for the waiter explaining its construction and composition to us.


The sommelier followed up the champagne with a Chardonnay from Puligny-Montrachet (“Sous le Puits”, Domaine Larue, Puligny-Montrachet, 2003). This was very refreshing in a forest-glade kind of way – with a cool, dry mouthfeel and lots of minerality. It was wonderfully versatile and I believe it complemented all of our appetizers.

We had a little more variety in our entrées and I was lucky enough to try at least a bite of everything. Reed’s paella was a more-than-generous helping of seafood and pinenuts for rice, with every little squid, every little piece of seafood cooked just right time-wise, no more, and no less. Matthew got the squab, which came with gourmet tater tots – an absolutely charming touch. I have a long and lovely history with tater tots, and to see them make an appearance in fine dining brought a smile to my face. I myself got the lamb – bite-sized and almost identical spherical chunks of lamb loin atop a jalapeno and white bean sauce, with summer vegetables and a side of polenta. I admire a kitchen that respects its vegetables. In this case they were prepared with care, and each vegetable was seasoned and prepared individually, not treated as part of a medley. The tomatoes were drizzled with balsamic and roasted till tender, while the fennel was lightly prepared so as to retain its crunch.

Morgan, Simon and Hunter each got the veal three ways – shank, cheek and sweetbreads. I love all of those preparations. Special mention must go to the sweetbread, which was out of this world. I remember introducing Greg to sweetbreads at a restaurant in Montreal, only to have him say “This tastes like chicken.” I wanted to punch him in the face. But then I tried it and you know what, it did taste a little bit like chicken – but only in that it had a mild, sort of nondescript flavour. The sweetbread at Citronelle, though, was unlike any other I had tasted before. It had a buttery mouthfeel and a tender center, and was seasoned so exquisitely that it made my heart ache.

For dinner we had first the red Burgundy – Domaine Jacques-Frederick Mugnier, Chambolle-Musigny, 2000 – another excellent recommendation by our sommelier. The wine caused Hunter to comment without prompting on how good it was, which I took as a good sign, for Hunter does not drink much wine, and his praise was pure and unadulterated. I love the colour of a good red Burgundy Pinot – it has a pale brilliance, almost fragile and ethereal compared to the darkness and fullness of a Bordeaux or a Brunello. The wine had good earth, tasted of cranberries and a little licorice, and had a certain vibrancy that was hard to place. Needless to say, it went too soon.

I overruled the sommelier for the third wine, disregarded my original budget and picked what I thought was reasonable value for a second growth Bordeaux – a 2000 Chateau Leoville-Poyferré, St Julien. The youngest of the three vineyards that made up the original Leoville estate, it was the only one I had not tried, and what better occasion, really. It was rich and full-bodied, with lots of dark fruit and a creamy mouthfeel. Its medium acidity and tannic levels made it a perfectly pleasurable experience to drink, and it had a long, opulent finish.

Michel Richard Citronelle is not cheap. In fact, it is the absolute opposite. I read so many reviews online referencing its “regulars” and I thought to myself: how nice it would be if I made enough money to be a regular of this restaurant. For that kind of money, the restaurant must always live with a set of astronomical expectations. What a dangerous place to be in, where the only way is down – you are expected to produce nothing but quality, expected to innovate constantly without losing your soul. The non-regulars who visit the place, myself included, expect nothing short of a magical, unforgettable evening. Fortunately for us, the restaurant more than delivered.


- Me, looking rather bemused at all the fuss over yet another birthday

A crime against seasonality

As I have written before in these pages, I grew up in Singapore – a country with little to no natural resources – and much if not all of what we ate on a day to day basis was grown elsewhere and imported. Agriculture has always been, and will continue to be, an insignificant part of our economy. One of the unwritten effects of this dependence on global food and commodity markets is that the average Singaporean has absolutely no concept of the seasonality of food. Supermarkets carry the same cornucopia of mass-grown produce and industrial farm-raised meats week in, week out. Because we are so tied to the industrialized and mechanized world of global food production and what Joanna Blythman calls the “permanent global summertime”, we have become accustomed to the year-round availability and the physical perfection of produce. We cannot conceive of not having access to strawberries, much less access to misshapen ones.

It is, of course, hard to judge us, I feel: because of the lack of options available to us. Yet nothing excuses the blissful ignorance that is perpetrated by the access to what we want, when we want. Singaporeans will never be “locavores” – we will never be able to “eat locally”. We will always have to make trade-offs. But not being aware that food is grown (and tastes better) in seasons, not being aware that eating seasonally is not only better for the environment, but also for our bodies – that, I think, is inexcusable.

Yet awareness can only go so far, and environmentalism is only so noble. I mentioned how Singaporeans faced a lack of options but increasing swathes of the developed world are beginning to face this lack of options too. Not everybody has easy access to local organic small farms, or co-ops, or farmers’ markets. Industrialized food production has permeated the way we think about feeding ourselves, and it has become harder and harder, in more parts of the world, to extricate ourselves from this increasingly global system. And with the world’s population growing at historically unprecedented rates, placing a tremendous strain on the earth’s resources – who is to say that the method that can feed the most people, for the cheapest price, is not the optimal solution?

A dilemma indeed, on all fronts – moral, environmental, political, social, economic but also gastronomic. Increasingly I find that every meal I eat is an opportunity for a statement of some kind. I am not going to lie and say that I really do give all that much thought to everything I put in my mouth – where it came from, if it is in season, what techniques were used in growing it. More often than not I am guilty of giving in to my whims and desires, and hiding behind the easy excuse of convenience – as the following story will prove. But the first step is knowing, I think, and the second step is caring. On those fronts I think I have made significant progress.

I never really had any exposure to the seasonality of food until I started cooking with Morgan. He would dismiss my suggestions in an offhanded way, with the simple observation that something was “not in season”. To him, it was natural, the be all and end all. We could not have tomatoes in January, of course not. To me, it was an alien concept. As I began to discover more about the various bounties of spring, summer, fall and winter – not to mention the cooking techniques peculiar to each one, I began to appreciate just how different food tasted when eaten at the right time.

So imagine my surprise when, strolling through the Dupont Farmers’ Market this past Sunday, I noticed a middle-aged couple selling soft-shell crab, among other seafood. The woman, who I spoke to, had the stoutness of farm-folk, a ruddy complexion and a ready smile. She spoke in a manner that did not waste words, sometimes at the expense of syntax, and I imagined many dark and wind-swept mornings on the bay tending to her catch with her husband, with no need of conversation. She did not seem capable of artifice.

Now, for my part, I absolutely adore soft-shell crab. Even in Singapore this is not something you can get year-round, and perhaps that contributes to its allure. Any time I see it on the menu, it is an automatic choice. Nothing trumps soft-shell crab, except perhaps duck confit, and even then I’m not so sure.

I had to get it. What else was there to do? It was hopelessly out of season but I could not pass it up.

After dropping it off in the refrigerator I had a busy day that day and it was close to 9.30 when I next stepped back into the house. Still I took care to be very deliberate in the prep because I did not want to ruin this. I seasoned it with Old Bay and breaded it with panko before frying it in a pan.


I also got some clams from the old woman with the ready smile and I made these in white wine with tomatoes and okra.


It was a good meal, and I had a glass of the white wine I had used (Pouilly Fuisse, Domaine Corsin, 2006: very floral, significant fruit – green apple and pear, but no oak, and very little depth. Cool medium finish.) At the risk of sounding selfish, now was not the time to think about the problems of the world. Now was the time to pour another glass of the wine, curl up on the couch with the New Yorker and read the fiction section.

Rose Water and Counter

We often write glowing reviews of places on this blog, sometimes pointing out minor criticisms. After a recent negative experience I was reflecting on some of my lesser adventures in dining.
Most recently I had a very negative experience at the restaurant Rose Water in Park Slope. As Jason once said to me "I am not impressed." I'd heard a lot of good things about this spot, and they are well known for their brunch (it is Park Slope after all.) So, since we were attempting to branch out it seemed like a good option. Just the opposite. I'm usually prepared to give a restaurant a lot of slack, but this spot totally rubbed me the wrong way. Problem number one, we were told it would be 20-25 minutes for a table, which is fine. However, we were not seated for 45 minutes, during which time I went from hungry to famished. As far as I could tell they were very understaffed, so that their ability to turn over tables was pretty much done for. Second problem: the room is not attractive, nay, not even a little. Third: Fruitfly infestation. They were all over the banquette and wall. I know they can be hard to get rid of, but that was unappetizing. Fourth: Their coffee was very, very bad. I know when I go to a diner that the coffee will be bad, but in a kind of bad in a good way sort of thing. This was just bad. Fifth: The food was not very good. My duck confit sandwich was quite greasy, which, once again I would expect this from a crappy breakfast, but this was a $14 sandwich. One wants a little more when it's twice as expensive. The "romesco" sauce was not good; it tasted like Goya brand tomato sauce. The sandwich was smothered with cheese, and the greens on it were totally wilted. I ate it, on account of being famished, but I can't say I enjoyed it. I should give credit where credit is due however and say that the side order of pancakes we ordered, with nectarines, pistachios and cardamom butter was quite good. In summary, I can not recommend this place, and will not be returning.

Counter, in the East Village is a "Vegetarian Bistro". Not to put too fine a point on it: this place blows. If I meet someone who has been there twice I will punch them in the teeth. The simple fact that I spent time and (someone else's) money there drives me crazy. Not only was the food vegetarian, which is not necessarily a deal breaker, it was absolutely miserable. If this restaurant were a dog I would shoot it, a la Old Yeller, to put it out of its rabid, horrible misery and to keep it from hurting any friends and loved ones who live nearby.

I am what I eat, or, a tribute to meat

I'm not going to lie, I eat a lot of meat. Probably too much to be healthy. I only have one vegetarian friend and I give her shit for it all the time. You know who you are.

Vegetarians aside, I don't know anybody who does not like fried chicken. You can have the most sophiscated palate in the world, but who can say no to a perfectly crisped chicken leg, dripping in fat? I don't own a deep-fryer, more's the pity, but fried chicken in a pan is still good enough for government work, as they say in this town.


I bought a whole red snapper the other day because it was on sale, and filleted it myself. I was pretty proud of that fact but then I messed up the skin while pan-searing it. Cooking fish is hard. Most fish is so delicate, you have to know what you are doing. Here I ate it with some noodles and braised baby bok choy.



If my mother only knew how much butter I use in cooking, she would shake her head in disgust and walk away. I don't know where I learnt it from because we never used a lot of fat cooking at home when I was growing up. If we did it was almost always vegetable oil, which I almost never use today. But a large pat of butter, a couple of cloves of garlic, a sprig of rosemary - throw them all in the pan and that's the perfect way to make a steak. Well, if you don't have a grill, of course. I threw in half a shallot because I had it handy, and as it sizzled in the pan I licked my lips in anticipation.


I actually like my steak a teensy bit little rarer than this, but hey, nobody's perfect. We all make mistakes.


And the close-up.


While we're on the topic of red meat, I was making beef short ribs the other day and as I took them out of the pot after searing them I could not resist taking a photo of them. Look at that short rib right there, sitting there all innocently like nothing is the matter. God damn it. You know you are delicious. What gives you the right!? Here you go down. Down in my belly.


Et voila.

"When the cod went so cheap, but so plenty"

A couple of weeks ago I actually cooked at home... a rarity, by any measure. I have been working in the restaurant business for a while now and being away from your home five nights a week makes it hard to even keep any food in house, much less make anything good. I always find that I making relatively simple dishes, ones that don't require super long prep times; I'm not braising beef or pork on my day off. I tend to favor fish or cuts of meat that need a relatively short cooking time, pork chops, sirloin, chicken, etc.

In this case I made a shrimp pasta to start, very simple. Seared the shrimp in hot olive oil, set aside. Sweat onion and garlic in the same pan, also olive oil. White wine, bring to simmer, add canned tomato, cook out for 15-20 mins. Season with kosher salt and red pepper flakes. Add the linguine to the sauce and finish cooking. Dilute sauce with pasta water if necessary. Re-add shrimp with some parsley chiffonade.

For a second course I made cod. I love cod, but more than cod I love bacalhau, salt preserved cod. The drying process of making bacalhau insures that what mild flavor the fish has is concentrated and the quantity of salt insures that one's taste buds jump to attention. Unfortunately I had to settle for fresh cod in this case. I prepared it with a fennel, onion, chorizo and parsley salad. I sauced it with no more than lemon juice and olive oil. First I sliced the chorizo into rounds and rendered them over medium heat in olive oil. I set them aside and placed them in a bowl with sliced fennel, red onion half-moons, and parlsey, seasoned with salt. Meanwhile I dusted the cod with salt and flour and fried it in the chorizo oil, at first over high heat to get it some color then over medium low to let it cook through. I dressed the salad with good olive oil and lemon juice. If I had been making this a more haute preparation I think that a preserved lemon vinaigrette would have been great. Otherwise, a mayonnaise based sauce could be really great. Not to mention using bacalhau. Also, a high quality chorizo is necessary. I used a Goya chorizo and it just wasn't doing it for me. Here's a mediocre picture:

On the whole, I thought it was a very good meal, and we were drinking a very nice rose cava, which went quite well with both dishes. It was creamy, yeasty, with a mild red fruit profile, very refreshing, plenty of acidity. It might be enough to get me to cook a home a little more.

In Vino Veritas, In Pizza Amicitia

Life, as I said to Morgan once, is all about choices. Sometimes we get to make our own choices. Other times our choices are made for us. And sometimes, sometimes we have no choice at all.

In food as well as in wine there are choices aplenty, but lately I have been noticing my choices appearing more and more as fundamental dichotomies. Good versus evil, old versus young, there are enough of these dilemmas in modern life to constitute existential crises. But happily, the dilemmas in food are often always welcome ones, and the resolutions always satisfying, whatever the outcome.

Morgan gives me a lot of flak for choosing red wine over white, whenever I can – so let me try to justify my preferences. At a basic level, I prefer the flavours in red wine more – dark fruit, spice, smoke – and I like heft and tannic quality. I like terroir, and the fact that in (good) red wines you can smell the soil, and taste the forest floor. Speaking in generalities, I find white wine to be comparatively insubstantial and does not present much of an experience. I do like the Burgundy whites, which tend to be fuller and have the terroir and minerality that I enjoy. But perhaps I just have not discovered whites that excite me.

With a good red, I give myself over. There is so much more to explore. I close my eyes and summon all my powers of taste and try to pick out the acid, to pick out the fruit, to separate the tannins from the minerals. I compartmentalize and analyze – knowing that each taste, each sensation, only lingers on your tongue for just that split second, before being replaced, or layered over by a new taste, a new sensation.

I suppose what I am saying is that what I appreciate most in wine is nuance. The best wines I have had, have all been rich, complex wines – with layers and textures and structure. A bouquet of oak and tobacco may give way to a silky smooth taste of plum, or blackberry – bolstered by a caustic tinge of acid, perhaps, and the jammy, tannic sensations on the sides of your tongue. And – sweets for the sweet – swirling the wine in your mouth you may taste the sugars; maybe a hint of vanilla, or licorice even. It is like being enveloped, from the inside of your mouth – if that were possible.

But this nuance carries further. The best wines evolve as they breathe, changing subtly as you drink them. Tannins oxidize, acid balances change, flavours get accentuated. It is a marvelous thing. When paired with food, it acts as a foil to the dishes you eat – whether savoury or sweet. I do not know the science of it but this evolution I believe is one of the distinguishing characteristics of good wine. You may chance upon some perfectly drinkable and perhaps even delicious table wine, but odds are that it will not mature, it will not develop as you drink it.

God I am such a snob.

I suppose what I am saying is that – find me a white wine with such nuance, and I will stand corrected. Until then, I’ll stick to what I know and like.

The other great debate that has surfaced in my life recently has to do with pizza – and whether I prefer thick or thin crust. This, I suppose I could answer, but not quite as readily. I have had excellent deep dish pizza and found it to warm my heart and hearth, with hot, fresh dough yielding to every bite. But I believe that my allegiances lie with the thin crust – paper thin, minimally dressed with sauce – and preferably baked in a wood-fired oven. I like it when the air pockets are browned nicely, and when you can audibly break off a piece of the crust.

Because you see, for me pizza is not about the toppings. You can put all the cheeses you want on it, with all the caramelized onions and all the pears and all the figs and all the candied walnuts from a thousand merchant ships. You can cover it with all manner of salumi, or drizzle as much olive oil on it as you like, but everybody knows that pizza is really all about the bread. My perfect pizza is browned to a crisp on the outside – flaky to the touch and crunchy to the bite. But the dough is barely warm on the inside and has that starchy mouthfeel, almost like biting into solid air.

In this though, as in wine, the choice is all about context. I’ll admit that there are times when I would rather one over the other. But in this, as in wine, I am glad that I even get to make the choice at all.



***Title borrowed from the Batali/Bastianich pizzeria in LA (Pizzeria Mozza)

Allen and Delancey

I have so much to say and I feel a great rush to say it all... Hopefully I can get all the writing done well, quickly enough before it fades. Even now, the memories of my ridiculously extravagant meal at Allen and Delancey are starting fade. This is perhaps the saddest part of dining out. It is a transient pleasure, one that will never shine with the same luster in recollection as it did while you were savoring every bite. Jason somehow got us a two-top at this extremely chic and desirable location for 8:30 about two weeks ago.
I'll start with the room: I found it extremely beautiful, well lit with a ton a candles... (who doesn't look good, or at least better, by candlelight?) The deep dark reds contrasted nicely with the dark hard woods and brick in the room. We were given, arguably, the worst table in the restaurant... the hostess had to walk all of 5 feet from the entrance to seat us... but such is life. Funnily, she still gave us a formal little "If you'll just follow me this way, I'll show you to your table" (or some such). Still, it was a good vantage point for watching and smelling food go by and scoping out the number of people in the room who were richer than me. Jason thought it was a little hard to read the menu, but de gustibus non disputandum est. I found it strange that they had only one bathroom, but I found it strangely awesome when the hostess noticed me looking longingly at the line for it and invited me to use the employee's restroom in the belly of the beast. I got to go down the service stairs and check out there back rooms, get a look into the dish washing operation, if not much else, of the kitchen, and I took a peek into the office, where Neil Ferguson was at the computer and on the telephone. Very, very cool. And I got to use the bathroom.
The food: Was sensational. I started with the rabbit terrine and then moved up to the duck breast and foie gras. Jason had the sea scallops and then the veal cannelloni, trotters, sweet breads, etc. I thought that everything was extremely well seasoned... perfectly salted. I particularly enjoyed my terrine, I think I noticed the inclusion of a trace quantity of liver which really made the plate. I was given some grilled bread to eat it on but found that I didn't even need it, that's how delicious it was. I should actually mention the table bread they provided, because it was absolutely amazing. The roll: good god was that salty and delicious. As for my duck, the foie gras was appropriately luscious, though I thought the breast could have been a bit more succulent. Looking back at Frank Bruni's review, he made a similar complaint about the duck in his otherwise extremely positive review. I didn't get a good sense of Jason's dishes, and maybe he will comment a little on them in this blog, but my one bite of the cannelloni was delicious... I think it would have been fun to try the three different types of veal separately and then try them in combinations. We also had the Peach Strudel with Sweet Corn Ice Cream and blackberry sauce. Delicious: nice textural contrasts, and the sweet corn ice cream was absolutely stunning.
The wine: We began with a stellar bottle of white, though Jason usually favors red. (Perhaps he was humoring me, knowing that I like to start with white and move up.) It was a Condrieu, and while unfortunately I didn't write down my notes, I remember getting some white flowers, plenty of minerality and acid, I recall it as a relatively full white, though certainly subtle and well structured. I thought it a nice lead in to our absolutely sensational and now legendary (in my book) Valdicava '99 Brunello di Montalcino. This wine absolutely stole the show. It had amazing structure, balance and a lengthy finish. To me, the sign of a great wine is that it changes noticeably throughout the drinking process. This wine kept us talking, smelling, tasting and enjoying for quite a long time and I'm sure it would have continued to do so if we were men of extreme patience. Not to mince words, I loved this wine. It began with rose petals and anise, moved to apricots and smoke, and finally gave way to intense plum and slate-like minerality. Thank goodness we, or rather Jason, decided to bring this with him rather than buy off the list, since it would have been an (even larger) small fortune. However, I couldn't approve of giving the waiter and the sommelier a taste of it, since I wanted it all for myself.
On the whole this restaurant will bear my highest recommendation; particularly if Warren Buffett happens to be in town and taking you out to dinner.

Photo journal update

One of the places we stopped by in Charleston was a wonderful little cafe called Kaminsky's Most Excellent Cafe. Our waiter recommended the tollhouse pie.


90 seconds later...


I think the best part about eating fish is the skin. More often than not I ruin it in the act of searing the fish, either because my pan is not hot enough or there isn't enough fat, etc etc. I thought I did pretty well here.


I also recently made monkfish, apparently Morgan's favourite fish - lightly dusted in flour, pan-seared and finished in the oven.


I paired it with a corn succotash with okra and portabello mushrooms.


As a home cook, I love the challenge of managing multiple dishes at once. I used to watch Jose in wonder as he managed four different pots and pans on the stove-top at once, with a protein cooking in the oven, and still brought everything to doneness at the same time.


The final product...

The Holy City

I recently took a trip to Charleston, SC – which was a veritable feast for all the senses. Charleston is a beautiful city with so many gorgeous churches, so many stunning examples of Georgian and Greek Revival architecture – that it kind of made me wish I had paid more attention in architecture class. But one of the more memorable notes of the trip was the fabulous food we had the good fortune of eating.

South Carolina Low-country cuisine is the overlooked step-sister of the Cajun and Creole cuisine further down the road in Louisiana, and is nowhere better showcased than in the city of Charleston. It utilizes a lot of the same coastal seafood – shrimp, fish, crabs and oysters – and many similar flavours and cooking techniques. We were lucky enough to sample both traditional low-country dishes in down-home, unpretentious settings, but also higher end restaurants and their interpretations of the regional cuisine.

I’ve written about this before but to me, I feel that this is the greatest appeal of American cooking. Like other countries with deep histories of food, there are regional cuisines and standards for the New American chef to draw upon. But unlike other countries, American cuisine is unfettered by ethnic boundaries, untethered to the weight of history, and can draw from an ever-expanding palette of flavours and tastes. As the demographic changes, so does the culinary landscape. I feel that more so than in other cuisines, innovation and an ability to synthesise old and new influences and inspirations are rewarded. This means that the adventurous gourmand is continually treated to new flavours and combinations, and it is this eclecticism and originality that I am so fascinated by.

So it was that we tried three examples of finer dining in Charleston – and it was heartening to see that none of the three restaurants we tried veered too far away from the classics in low-country cuisine. Shrimp and grits, she-crab soup, fried oysters and okra were all given prominent stages, but each restaurant added their signature touches. The she-crab soup at Hank’s was richer and creamier, with stronger tastes of sherry, while the version at Anson was lighter and was included a judicious smattering of finely diced tomatoes – which I thought was a nice seasonal touch and added a sweetness that butter could not.

Slightly North of Broad (S.N.O.B’s)
192 E Bay St
Charleston, SC 29401
843-723-3424

Broad St is the artery that divides the Charleston Historic District from everything above it, and as the tour guide pointed out to us – people who live north of Broad are referred to as SNOBs. The ones who live below it are referred to as S.O.B’s, which stands, or course, for South of Broad (what were you thinking?) I picked this fine restaurant admiring their sense of irony, but also because it had received great reviews online. We were not disappointed. S.N.O.B’s was a delightful place, nestled in a 19th century brick warehouse. We sat right in front of the semi-open kitchen, and there were baskets of fresh local produce showcased prominently.

We ate late, so by the time I ordered they were out of the mussels and I had to settle for the oyster stew, which was a little thinner than I had expected and also dominated too much by the smoke from the applewood bacon. I did, however, immensely enjoy my entrée – Carolina quail breast on a bed of smoked field peas. The port wine reduction was exquisite, bursting with flavour and made to exactly the perfect nappé consistency.


Sue had the crab cakes, over a nice summer sauté of corn, okra and other vegetables. I love okra. You don’t see much of it in the Northeast, and it is only after visiting the South that you realize what you are missing.


Karen voted these the best fried oysters of the entire trip, and if you look hard enough you can see the grilled tuna underneath it.


Hank’s Seafood Restaurant
10 Hayne St
Charleston, SC 29401
843-723-3474

Hank’s had less of an eclectic feel to it, even though the outside had resembled an old fish house. Inside, it had the elegant touches of a Chicago steakhouse, with that Old World feel. Somehow, I didn’t get the feeling that I was in Charleston, which was a little disjointing. I was, however, very impressed with our waiter, who despite an unwashed look was efficient, just personable enough, and knew his shit.

I had the she-crab soup to start, which I thought was very good. My entrée was the Seafood a la Wando, which was quite disappointing. Beyond the strong taste of sherry I thought it offered little, and for a dish in the style of illustrious forebears such as bouillabaisse and cioppino, it was a little too one-dimensional.


Sue’s grouper was very pretty, but I did not try it.


Karen’s scallops looked like they were dusted with flour to achieve a deep brown, a technique which Morgan calls “lazy”, but she raved about her dish so I gave it the benefit of doubt. I did try the potato mash and the greens, which were good without being great.



Anson
12 Anson St
Charleston, SC 29401
843-577-0551

This was my favourite of the three restaurants we tried. Anson is located off the main drag of Market St, in a quaint Civil War era carriage house that promises pomp, and delivers it with a human touch. It was genteel without being stuffy, and it kind of reminded me of the French Quarter in New Orleans, and was certainly in the style of the “grand old restaurant”. I half expected a rehearsal dinner, or a engagement party, but it was Sunday evening and the first floor was barely full.

Anson had been a last minute choice, and I knew upon entering that we would not regret it. There are certain subtleties about the front of the house that I notice, certain things that restaurant owners and managers in the know are savvy to. The layout of the floor is a big thing for me. It is not always about squeezing the most covers into the space you have, but rather designing a restaurant that not only allows you to seat people in good spaces, but also allow your waiters, servers and other staff to enter, exit, and fulfill their functions with minimal fuss and maximum efficiency. The situation of the kitchen in relation to the bar, and in relation to the floor, is more important than many realize. At Anson, things just felt right – that everything was in its proper place.

Karen had the she-crab soup to start – she preferred the version from Hank’s the night before, but I liked Anson’s take on it a little better. It was a little more refined, a little less overpowering, and I could taste the crab a little more. I started with these fried oysters, which were dusted with cornmeal and topped with what the waiter called “Green Goddess” sauce – basically a mayonnaise pureed with parsley.


Our entrées were what stole the show. Karen had the triggerfish, which came with roasted cauliflower and currants. I had never had triggerfish, and it was a lean, very flavourful white fish with hints of sweetness. I thought the cauliflower was done really well, and had touches of Cajun spices.


But what I was really blown away by was my entrée of roasted red snapper on a bed of low-country succotash. The red snapper was juicy and tender to the bite, bursting with fresh flavour - it had no need of sauce or other adornment. The succotash was also very tasty, and included sliced okra. Needless to say, I finished every last bit of it.


We shared a dessert of sweet corn ice cream, which was an inspired choice. It was just light enough for us to handle after a heavy meal, and sweet enough to round our dinners off on the right note. I was a little tipsy at the end of the night (Karen was the designated driver, which meant I had to finish a whole bottle by myself), but who’s counting?



***Photos courtesy of the lovely Ms Karen Lee.