“…the city of Stella, Blanche and Stanley, the city that to William Faulkner was 'the labyrinthine mass of oleander and jasmine, lantana and mimosa," a place one admirer said 'could wreck your liver and poison your blood,' the city of the Italianate mansions of the Garden District and forlorn housing projects like the one named Desire -- a place that gave America most of its music, much of its literature, a cracked mirror glimpse of American exotica and a fair piece of its soul…”
- Peter Applebome, New York Times, 8/31/05
Bayona
430 Rue Dauphine
New Orleans, LA 70112
504-525-4455
Memory is a capricious thing, and one is never quite as much its master as one thinks. I ought to have written this when it happened, but as it turned out I was reminded of this restaurant just recently by someone who had been there and even now still remember what I had. It helps, of course, that I still have the receipt from when we went. Yet I remember, too, flying into a post-Katrina New Orleans from Phoenix – Sarah having arrived earlier than I – and getting picked up by Jeffrey from the airport in his Ford Explorer. It was a warm, cloudless evening bordering on the muggy, the perfect kind for staring out of open car windows on long rides at high speeds; but there was no time to waste on ruminating about the weather. We were off to Bayona.
I first met Jeffrey when I moved to DC – around the same time that he did. He had grown up in New Orleans and was a damn likeable chap, as well as being a gentleman and a scholar in equal parts. He was also that rare breed of sensitive individual that is not built to last on this earth; and it sometimes seemed that he carried the weight of the world on his back, but to his credit he hardly ever looked the worse for wear. Jeffrey was an excellent person to talk to about any and everything. I soon found out that, among other things, eating – and eating well – was important to him, and naturally we became friends.
He had a habit of going on about things that made sense to him but not necessarily to his audience; but his manner was charming and his enthusiasm infectious, and you soon got around to his way of thinking. I was regaled with stories of a restaurant in a faraway place called Bayona, and reverential descriptions of the food and its creator, Susan Spicer. It was the perfect name for a chef, really, and I quickly became enchanted.
When I finally made it to New Orleans it was the first Mardi Gras after Katrina, and Jeffrey had moved back to his hometown. Sarah and I went to visit for the weekend, and arrived on the last night before Bayona was to close for the Mardi Gras weekend. Good fortune, then, as we sat to dinner – friends reunited and hardly believing it – in a quirky little Creole cottage in the French Quarter.
It was night-time, and we did not get to see the courtyard about which we had heard so much, but the inside of the restaurant was delightful enough. We each had appetisers – I had the carpaccio – and Jeffrey called for a bowl of their famous cream of garlic soup for us to share. It was rich and tangy yet not overwhelming, and Sarah went on about it for quite some time; but I could not see what all the fuss was about and was perfectly content with what I had ordered for myself.
The thing that strikes me even now about Bayona was that the staff and the service were all extremely pleasant and effervescent. It is not easy to keep up the good cheer when you are waiting on many different tables at once, rushing to and fro between the kitchen and the restaurant trying to keep track of orders coming in and going out. Our waitress and servers were in all probability tired and overworked and looking forward to the end of their work week, but they never once let us see any of that, never once dropped the façade, and always had a big smile or a few kind words for us each time we stopped them.
We had, respectively, the lamb, duck and striped bass as entrees – and Sarah’s fish came in a black bean dressing that was quite out of this world. As for myself I quite enjoy eating red meat, and washing it down with big, full red wines. It makes me feel as if I am part of a greater cause; that this is the way it has always been done and the way it should be done for many, many years to come. That night we drank an inexpensive Burgundy red – Vincent Girardin, Maranges 1er cru, Clos des Loyeres, 2002 – and if it had been any good it was probably lost on us as we talked the night away.
(I have since then become quite a fan of Burgundy reds. They are much more approachable than Bordeaux reds, often earthier – which I like – and yet for the most part have the same strength and character and complexity.)
It was obvious that our waitress was a dessert person, for she perked up on its mention, and took immense pleasure in delivering her recommendations. My tastes tend towards the savoury more so than the sweet, but I had to have the Bananas Foster, especially while in New Orleans. It was a good flavour, and strengthened my belief that the best desserts usually have alcohol in them. I had a glass of port to go with it and felt quite pleased with myself.
I doubt that Bayona, when I went there, was functioning to the best of its abilities, as it had been only a few short months after people had started returning to New Orleans after Katrina, and so I hesitate to judge the food. I would have liked to have gone at a time when the shadow of the city’s great disaster was not still hanging over it. We had a grand time though, and what I saw was enough to convince me that the spirit of Bayona was the spirit of New Orleans – genuine, warm, hospitable, and rooted in history. I knew now that it was this spirit that made Jeffrey who he was and what made dining at Bayona so enjoyable, and a spirit that, flooding notwithstanding, would never die.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
If it be not now, yet it will come
Amanda was the first to arrive, and as I met her in the doorway we both – from afar, in that manner of two people excited to see one another – unloaded in our attempts to get the first word in. She won handily, of course; with words that were not so much accusatory but rather tinged with relief at the absolution of guilt. “You didn’t answer your phone, and your doorbell’s not working. But I’m on time!”
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
I forget now what it was I was about to say, but I am sure it did not matter, for she had come to dinner and was, as she pointed out, prompt. There were deviled egg appetisers made especially for her, and a bottle of wine already open, so I went into the kitchen to fetch both. Amanda followed me in and we talked as though already deeply into conversation: of lives and loves and of discovery and worry, of corned beef sandwiches, or in short – the things that mattered. There was a moment where I looked at her as I held out a wine glass and she fumbled to remove her coat: Amanda has stringy chestnut hair and a smile as disarming as it is naughty, and a warm, inexorable earnestness that takes a piece of my heart away every damn time.
Allison was the next to arrive, and let herself in as Amanda and I were busy with our respective tasks in the kitchen: her, drinking and talking and I, cooking and listening. In truth the food was mostly done or prepped before anyone had come over; I had made the deviled eggs earlier that morning, Laura’s lentil burgers in the afternoon and the ravioli just minutes before. The fish was ready to go in the oven, the béchamel was bubbling weakly on the stovetop, and the bread already sliced. I am not by nature a planner or a maker of lists, but in food I know one thing if any: that readiness is all.
The kitchen of the house I grew up in was never very conducive to conversation. It was a square-shaped room, small, and was not lit very well. There were two doors, one coming from the dining room and the other directly across from it, leading out to the back yard. Something about how this was set up made the room seem a journey rather than a destination, and we rarely, if ever, stayed in the kitchen beyond the necessary. It was not a place to linger, sadly. We did not have an island counter, but instead a smallish round table that served as a prep station and storage for all manner of snacks and dried goods. It was too low, in my opinion, for standing up against – and the nature of prepping, and cooking too, really, is such that it demands standing up, as if at attention.
My kitchen now is no more impressive, by any means. It is shaped as though it were an afterthought, a room squeezed into whatever space was left over in the apartment. There are tight corners and minimal counter space, and really no more than two persons can cook in it comfortably at any one time. Yet five or six can be in it at a time, and somehow it feels like a good place for a conversation – in part, I think, because of the window. There is a large window right above the sink, with a sizeable sill where I store my produce. It looks out towards the doorway to our apartment, and one can, if one is looking out for them, see one’s visitors as they approach. I have long passed the age where it was acceptable to assign inanimate objects personalities, but this window is quite something else.
The three of us stood talking in the kitchen for a little while as we waited on Clayton and Laura, before I shooed them out to sit at the table. It is a good feeling being in a kitchen when not actually doing anything – being passive in the midst of action – especially when there is anything cooking. It is kind of like going out on a boat – there is always something else to do, but sometimes you’d much rather not, and rather just have a glass of wine and listen to friends. A kitchen should be that kind of place, I feel.
Clayton and Laura finally arrived, and we sat down to dinner and it was very pleasant indeed. Laura is a tidy eater, and she handled the lentil burger with a grace borne of years of fine dining. She once told me that growing up, her “mom’s favourite thing to make for dinner was reservations” – which partly explains her skill with the fork and knife. She is also a wonderful dinner table conversationalist if you steer her away from her pet topics – which invariably involve bodily secretions or something or other – and has equal polish in both making fun of others and being made fun of.
As the night wore on, the wine loosened our lips, and there was much merriment. Slowly the feeling came upon us that the world was a good place, and we were all worthy people, and that brought smiles to everyone’s faces.
Lentil Burgers with Roquefort Cheese
1 cup lentils
2 cups water
½ cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, beaten
1 onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely diced
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp paprika
1 tbsp Old Bay
1 tbsp soy sauce
Cook the lentils in the water per instructions, simmering for at least 30 minutes. When done, drain and combine with breadcrumbs, eggs, onion and garlic. Season with spices and combine into patties. Refrigerate until time to cook – then pan-sear patties in butter for a couple of minutes each side and finish off in the oven at 350 for another 3-4 minutes.
I served this topped with Roquefort on ciabatta bread, with red onion and tomato, but we had leftover patties and the next day Clayton and I had them with a wild-mushroom-ricotta topping instead, and they were equally delicious.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
Partly because of how much I travel, and more because it is how I prefer it – I go shopping for groceries each time I want to cook. Some weeks this translates into an almost daily trip to the store down the road, depending on whatever I feel like eating that night. The cold, biting winter days, though, have necessitated decreasing the frequency of my trips – for who really wants to leave the house when it is freezing out? I barely even leave my bed if I can help it. What this means then, is that the night of the grocery store trip is always a night for seafood – in all its clean, wholesome freshness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
(***Note: I now live in Washington DC, and I can hardly call the winter days cold and biting, but afford me some poetic license.)
In my days of cooking with and learning from Morgan we had, by our own current admission, overdosed on salmon. We made it with ginger and teriyaki, we made it with béarnaise sauce. We baked it wrapped in tin foil, we poached it in white wine. It was affordable and available year-round, and unfortunately it did not take too long for us to get sick of it. To this day I would rather eat monkfish or catfish, and I make salmon but sparingly.
The other night was just such an occasion. I marinated two salmon fillets in a soy-honey mixture with a healthy dose of garlic and ginger root, then pan-seared them in the tiniest pat of butter and finished them off in the oven. I topped them with a curried béchamel, and paired these with roasted vegetable couscous, and it was like rediscovering a favourite book from your childhood after a long time. There is something so pink and pert about salmon, and the way it resists and finally crumbles at the insistent prodding of a fork – that makes it quite unlike any other fish in form and texture. Clayton pushed the skin to one side warily, and for a full beat I stared at him like he was crazy.
Salmon Fillets in Curried Bechamel
Two salmon fillets
½ cup soy sauce
¼ cup honey
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp ginger root, minced
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
1 cup milk
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp dried cilantro leaves
1 tsp turmeric
Heat the soy sauce in small saucepan, and slowly drizzle in the honey. When thoroughly combined, bring to room temperature and add garlic and ginger. Marinate the salmon fillets in this mixture for one to two hours.
Preheat the oven to 350. With the butter and flour, make a roux flavoured with the seasonings and cook it till it is golden brown. Bring milk to boil in another saucepan and combine with the roux. Add the bay leaf, salt and pepper to taste and cook till desired consistency.
Warm a oven-proof skillet over medium heat, then remove from heat and add a pat of butter. Return the pan to heat and sear the salmon fillets quickly, about a minute each side. Finish off in the oven for another 8-10 minutes or until desired doneness.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Crazy nights and lazy mornings
“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken." – MFK Fisher
I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.
Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.
As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.
I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.
But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.
I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.
It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.
I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.
Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.
As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.
I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.
But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.
I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.
It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Für Elise
Union Square Cafe
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020
Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.
I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.
It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.
The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.
Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?
So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.
Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.
As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The well-laid plans of mice and men
Sometimes planning a meal can be almost as exciting as actually making it and – very rarely – actually having the meal. Certainly for me it feels like the longest stage in the entire process: how many courses, what ingredients and what methods to use, what wines to drink and obviously most important of all – who to invite. Yesterday I finally threw a dinner party that had been in the works for close to a month; I had talked Laura and Amanda’s ears off about what I would make and it was time to deliver.
Part of the planning process, I feel, and especially with a multi-course dinner, involves choosing your courses carefully so that you have a comfortable mix of dishes that can be made in advance and dishes that have to be made a la minute. I had made vichyssoise earlier in the day and was going to serve it as a starter; the lamb would take four hours and so had to be started early too. The bread pudding would be served as dessert and could cook while we were eating. Really the only things I had to make by the time dinner actually rolled around were the pasta and the couscous. At two points last night I actually stood in my kitchen and twiddled my thumbs as I wondered what to do next.
To start we had vichyssoise, a cold potato-leek soup which I was cooking for the first time. I threw in a splash of truffle oil, which felt like cheating to me but it did wonders for the soup. Morgan had told me to use more butter and fewer potatoes for a thinner, lighter soup; I followed his advice and it turned out well. I had vaguely remembered reading somewhere that one should always over-season chilled soups, and I sadly did not heed this pearl of wisdom to the extent it was intended. I made the soup and it had tasted powerful before I chilled it, but when dinner came it had distinctly lost a little of the flavour it had before and was in desperate need of salt and pepper at the table. Natalia brought a bottle of Muscadet (Muscadet Sevre et Maine, Domaine des Dorices, France, 2004) to pair with the soup, and it was a delightful course nonetheless.
After the vichyssoise we had what I thought was the best course of the night, cappellini with clams in a variation of regular pesto that had spring onions and honey in it. This had a compelling and exotic flavour, and if Natalia ate red meat I would have definitely added pancetta to it for some smoky goodness. Hunter brought a delightful, clean and crisp white (Sauvignon Blanc, Montevina, California, 2003) which was almost buttery in its smoothness, and went wonderfully with the pasta.
As everyone finished up their primi I exited to the kitchen to whip up the couscous for the next course. In the oven I already had lamb shanks braised in red wine for everyone but Natalia – for whom I made portabellas stuffed with asparagus and breadcrumbs. Laura, who could not attend, had sent on a full-bodied red to go with the course (Cabernet Sauvignon, Tisdale Vineyards, California, 2004). An Old World wine may have worked better here as I had used a Burgundy Pinot in the making of the dish but Laura’s wine was more than adequate. We also had Amanda’s bottle of Bitch wine but we never got to drinking that – I will save that for another special occasion.
At this point people were rubbing their bellies but there was one course to go yet, and miles to go before we slept. I had wanted to recreate the Portuguese sweet bread pudding at Mill’s Tavern, but unfortunately had no access to sweet bread here in DC. So in desperation on Friday I had baked my own with a recipe I found online, and promptly burnt the crusts to a deep mahogany brown. I have a feeling my oven’s temperature control is – how does one put it – not quite so reliable. The bread itself tasted good though, and I went ahead with the plan. It did not turn out quite like regular bread pudding – there is a lot of work yet that I have to do on this recipe – but I made a cognac sauce that I drizzled over it and it was sweet, sassy, saccharine goodness like all desserts should be. Matthew brought port (Porto, Taylor Fladgate, Portugal, 2000) like I asked him to, and I drank perhaps a little too much of it. One never knows when to stop when drinking port.
The conversation had not yet begun to die when the night crept up on us, and it was soon time to go. As fall and winter approach so will those awkward moments before parting ways where you have to button your jacket, or wrap your scarf, or pull on your boots at the door before making your exit. I never know what to say during those few uncomfortable seconds. Fortunately this can all be resolved quite easily with hugs and kisses and handshakes, and it was a good thing there were plenty of those to go around last night.
Cappellini with Clams in Spring Onion and Honey Pesto
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
I can clam meat
½ cup spring onions, coarsely chopped
½ cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
¼ cup pine nuts
1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons heavy cream
Cappellini
Dash of Old Bay
s/p
Blend the spring onions and basil leaves in a food processor – do this in small batches to ensure they are well chopped. When done, add pine nuts and repeat. When pine nuts are blended into the pesto mixture, drizzle olive oil and honey into the mixture while keeping the food processor going, stopping to scrape down the sides of the container.
In a sauté pan, cook the garlic, shallot and red pepper in a little olive oil over medium heat for 4-5 minutes. Add the clam meat and season with Old Bay, salt and pepper. Add the juices from the can and cook down for another 4-5 minutes. Pour the pesto mixture into the pan and add the cream, mixing well to incorporate it. Keep on medium-low heat for a further 3-4 minutes to cook the cream through.
Prepare cappellini per directions on the box. When done, toss evenly with pesto mixture, correct for seasoning and serve.
(Pesto will keep in the refrigerator for a week or frozen for a month, for best results store with a layer of olive oil over it.)
Part of the planning process, I feel, and especially with a multi-course dinner, involves choosing your courses carefully so that you have a comfortable mix of dishes that can be made in advance and dishes that have to be made a la minute. I had made vichyssoise earlier in the day and was going to serve it as a starter; the lamb would take four hours and so had to be started early too. The bread pudding would be served as dessert and could cook while we were eating. Really the only things I had to make by the time dinner actually rolled around were the pasta and the couscous. At two points last night I actually stood in my kitchen and twiddled my thumbs as I wondered what to do next.
To start we had vichyssoise, a cold potato-leek soup which I was cooking for the first time. I threw in a splash of truffle oil, which felt like cheating to me but it did wonders for the soup. Morgan had told me to use more butter and fewer potatoes for a thinner, lighter soup; I followed his advice and it turned out well. I had vaguely remembered reading somewhere that one should always over-season chilled soups, and I sadly did not heed this pearl of wisdom to the extent it was intended. I made the soup and it had tasted powerful before I chilled it, but when dinner came it had distinctly lost a little of the flavour it had before and was in desperate need of salt and pepper at the table. Natalia brought a bottle of Muscadet (Muscadet Sevre et Maine, Domaine des Dorices, France, 2004) to pair with the soup, and it was a delightful course nonetheless.
After the vichyssoise we had what I thought was the best course of the night, cappellini with clams in a variation of regular pesto that had spring onions and honey in it. This had a compelling and exotic flavour, and if Natalia ate red meat I would have definitely added pancetta to it for some smoky goodness. Hunter brought a delightful, clean and crisp white (Sauvignon Blanc, Montevina, California, 2003) which was almost buttery in its smoothness, and went wonderfully with the pasta.
As everyone finished up their primi I exited to the kitchen to whip up the couscous for the next course. In the oven I already had lamb shanks braised in red wine for everyone but Natalia – for whom I made portabellas stuffed with asparagus and breadcrumbs. Laura, who could not attend, had sent on a full-bodied red to go with the course (Cabernet Sauvignon, Tisdale Vineyards, California, 2004). An Old World wine may have worked better here as I had used a Burgundy Pinot in the making of the dish but Laura’s wine was more than adequate. We also had Amanda’s bottle of Bitch wine but we never got to drinking that – I will save that for another special occasion.
At this point people were rubbing their bellies but there was one course to go yet, and miles to go before we slept. I had wanted to recreate the Portuguese sweet bread pudding at Mill’s Tavern, but unfortunately had no access to sweet bread here in DC. So in desperation on Friday I had baked my own with a recipe I found online, and promptly burnt the crusts to a deep mahogany brown. I have a feeling my oven’s temperature control is – how does one put it – not quite so reliable. The bread itself tasted good though, and I went ahead with the plan. It did not turn out quite like regular bread pudding – there is a lot of work yet that I have to do on this recipe – but I made a cognac sauce that I drizzled over it and it was sweet, sassy, saccharine goodness like all desserts should be. Matthew brought port (Porto, Taylor Fladgate, Portugal, 2000) like I asked him to, and I drank perhaps a little too much of it. One never knows when to stop when drinking port.
The conversation had not yet begun to die when the night crept up on us, and it was soon time to go. As fall and winter approach so will those awkward moments before parting ways where you have to button your jacket, or wrap your scarf, or pull on your boots at the door before making your exit. I never know what to say during those few uncomfortable seconds. Fortunately this can all be resolved quite easily with hugs and kisses and handshakes, and it was a good thing there were plenty of those to go around last night.
Cappellini with Clams in Spring Onion and Honey Pesto
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
I can clam meat
½ cup spring onions, coarsely chopped
½ cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
¼ cup pine nuts
1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons heavy cream
Cappellini
Dash of Old Bay
s/p
Blend the spring onions and basil leaves in a food processor – do this in small batches to ensure they are well chopped. When done, add pine nuts and repeat. When pine nuts are blended into the pesto mixture, drizzle olive oil and honey into the mixture while keeping the food processor going, stopping to scrape down the sides of the container.
In a sauté pan, cook the garlic, shallot and red pepper in a little olive oil over medium heat for 4-5 minutes. Add the clam meat and season with Old Bay, salt and pepper. Add the juices from the can and cook down for another 4-5 minutes. Pour the pesto mixture into the pan and add the cream, mixing well to incorporate it. Keep on medium-low heat for a further 3-4 minutes to cook the cream through.
Prepare cappellini per directions on the box. When done, toss evenly with pesto mixture, correct for seasoning and serve.
(Pesto will keep in the refrigerator for a week or frozen for a month, for best results store with a layer of olive oil over it.)
Monday, September 25, 2006
Waltzing with Wüsthofs
There is a scene in the 1990 film Goodfellas in which Paulie (Paul Sorvino) is preparing garlic to be used for tomato sauce. He is sitting down, hunched over a table, and it is as though nobody else is in the room. He uses a razor and slices the clove slowly and deliberately, with his left hand perched on the side of the table to steady it. He is a study in concentration – his eyes are focused completely and entirely on the application of the blade to the garlic and he holds his breath each time he brings the blade down – and produces transparent panes of garlic so thin that they “liquefy in the pan”. I think of this scene often, especially when I am prepping – for Rome may burn and the Bastille may be stormed, but I’ll be damned if anyone gets in the way of me chopping garlic.
I was thinking of this scene earlier today as I pulled dinner together from what I had in our depleted kitchen. I had been out of town for a week and Clayton had somehow survived without a grocery run. I had garlic – for what is a kitchen if it does not have even that – but not much else, and I did what I could. For a razor I had my chef’s knife, and as I sliced through the garlic I became aware of that sensation one gets when working with a familiar implement. It is comfort, almost, wielding my knife; but it is also power and strength and art and creativity all at the same time.
I have a Wüsthof Classic 8” Chef’s Knife, and it has served me well over the last year. I chose it for its heft, and the feeling of grandeur it gave me to hold it. The blade sharpens easily, and keeps well. It has claimed my blood only one time, and the knife and I have settled into a easy marriage of sorts. I thumb the blade without fear, and I sometimes take my eyes off the board. I can do those things now. Some day I will move on to bigger and better things – for like all enthusiasts in the culinary arts I lust after good Japanese steel. I long for the day when Hattori Hanzo will custom-make me a sushi knife. Until then I have my Wüsthof, and for now I am content.
As knives go I suppose I have been spoiled by the days living with Jose – when I had a whole bagful of his to choose from. He too had Wüsthofs – among others – and, as a dutiful student of the culinary arts, kept his steel clean and sharp. He respected the knives, and in return they did what he wanted in the way that he wanted it done. He taught me the claw technique, which I bastardized in my own use; and he showed me the proper way to cut an onion. To this day I prep as he does – he never cut so much as an onion without making a plan for the whole meal, and he never started cooking until everything he needed was cut and prepped. The plan, the prep, and the actual cooking – these were three distinct stages which had to follow one another in their entirety and could not be compromised. He would pull out everything he needed from the four corners of the kitchen and lay it on the counter; and after a flurry of his blade he would have his mise. Then, and only then, would the first fire be lit.
I hold the knife by the bolster – that thick metal piece joining the handle and the blade – pushing my hand obstinately into the finger guard, with my index finger straightened over the top of the blade. I do form a claw with my left hand, but at a forty-five degree angle to the blade rather than the ninety that I was taught to. Holding a knife gives me an adrenaline rush, and to feel the blade going through a leek or an onion or a pepper is a thrilling sensation. Rather – if your knife is sharp enough – you do not actually feel it going through, but only think that you do, and it is enough. Those in the know will understand completely that after using a good, sharp, well-weighted and well crafted knife there is no way of going back to a dull or unwieldy one – that feeling of holding a blunt blade as it crunches slowly through the leek or onion or pepper is one of unspeakable disappointment.
If, though, using a dull knife is unspeakably disappointing, then the thrill of a sharp one is quite indescribable. Jointing a chicken for example, or should I say jointing a chicken well, is perhaps one of the more satisfying tasks of those performed in the kitchen. To feel the blade of a carving knife slide easily through the flesh of the chicken, missing bone and joint altogether, sets my hair on end. I feel forceful and destructive, and entirely capable of bloody murder; but at the same time like a craftsman – delicate and elegant, unhurried and deliberate – turning a matter of a quick seconds into what feels like an eternity in paradise.
As I minced the garlic for dinner it was all I could do to keep from smiling each time the blade made its systematic thuds against the chopping board. I rocked the knife back and forth, and as my wrist moved I gradually lost the sensation that the blade and my hand were separate. I felt like an artist does in front of his canvas, and like a brute does in front of his victim; and there was no calculation whatsoever on my part as I simply did what should be done.
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A Point: The very end of the knife, which is used for piercing
B Tip: The first third of the blade (approximately), which is used for small or delicate work
C Edge: The cutting surface of the knife, which extends from the point to the heel
D Heel: The rear part of the blade, used for cutting activities that require more force
E Spine: The top, thicker portion of the blade, which adds weight and strength
F Bolster: The thick metal portion joining the handle and the blade, which adds weight and balance and keeps the cook's hand from slipping
G Finger Guard: The portion of the bolster that keeps the cook's hand from slipping onto the blade
H Return: The point where the heel meets the bolster
J Tang: The portion of the metal blade that extends into the handle, giving the knife stability and extra weight
K Scales: The two portions of handle material (wood, plastic, composite, etc) that are attached to either side of the tang
L Rivets: The metal pins (usually 3) that hold the scales to the tang
M Handle Guard: The lip below the butt of the handle, which gives the knife a better grip and prevents slipping
N Butt: The terminal end of the handle
***Courtesy of Wikipedia
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Thursday, September 14, 2006
Death in the evening
Fall is the best season to cook meat in. The weather accommodates both grilling outdoors and slow roasting indoors, and the wealth of options possible is greater than at other times in the year. I take much comfort in trotting out the old favourites in my recipe book, especially the ones I associate with lovely memories of our Friday dinner parties that one fall when Morgan and I first started cooking together. Margaret came to visit this past weekend and we planned and made a lovely dinner for seven – complete, of course, with a vegetarian option.
There are moments in time when you are doing something you love and you feel you cannot be touched. Sportsmen call this being in the zone, and it is a great and glorious thing to experience and behold. Yesterday in my kitchen – a kitchen I have been cooking in for almost a year now – I had a heightened, somewhat different, awareness of my entire space and I worked with passion and honour. Without realizing it I was thinking three or four steps ahead subconsciously and I moved with much certainty. I did the right things in the right way, and I was proper and honest and sure and the result was quite a tasty meal indeed.
I invited Amanda because she is such a delight, and Clayton because he pays rent here as well; and Margaret had three friends that she also invited. Margaret loves mussels, and I made those in her honour; as well as a whole roasted leg of lamb with plenty of garlic and fresh rosemary and mint, that I could not take my eyes off the entire time it was cooking. Big, hearty haunches of meat always make me weak in the knees, just a little bit, and I die a little death every time. It is a happy death, of course. I made the caramelized onion and apple tart that is my favourite vegetarian option; while Margaret also made a salad of greens with red onion and apples and toasted pinenuts, dressed in a ginger-balsamic vinaigrette.
There is something about a dinner party that excites me no end. Last night there was much chatter and pockets of conversation and wine glasses clinking, and we had a ball. At one point I leaned back and smiled while thinking to myself that these were grand times we lived in. Margaret made strawberry shortcake for dessert which was simple and extremely satisfying, and Clayton made us all coffee to close our palate. It was a perfect dinner, with nothing missing, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
Mussels in Saffron and White Wine Broth
1 bag of mussels
1 tsp saffron threads
1 bottle dry white wine
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 large leek, chopped
2 cups chicken broth
Healthy sprinkling of Old Bay
Half as much paprika as Old Bay
Half as much cayenne as paprika
Clean the mussels, picking out the bad ones, and leave them in iced water while making the broth. Pour the white wine and the chicken broth into a large mixing bowl and steep the saffron threads in them. This should ideally sit for about 20 minutes.
When ready to make the broth, fry the bacon in a large pot to a crisp. Starting soups and sauces off with bacon adds so much flavour and smoky goodness, it is a wonder people do not do more of it. When the bacon fat has been rendered, take out the bacon strips and set aside. Add the garlic and leek to the pot and season with the spices. Cook for about five to six minutes and then add the broth. Simmer the mixture for a while – ideally for 15 or more minutes – then add the mussels to cook. Remove them when they open and serve in bowls of the broth.
There are moments in time when you are doing something you love and you feel you cannot be touched. Sportsmen call this being in the zone, and it is a great and glorious thing to experience and behold. Yesterday in my kitchen – a kitchen I have been cooking in for almost a year now – I had a heightened, somewhat different, awareness of my entire space and I worked with passion and honour. Without realizing it I was thinking three or four steps ahead subconsciously and I moved with much certainty. I did the right things in the right way, and I was proper and honest and sure and the result was quite a tasty meal indeed.
I invited Amanda because she is such a delight, and Clayton because he pays rent here as well; and Margaret had three friends that she also invited. Margaret loves mussels, and I made those in her honour; as well as a whole roasted leg of lamb with plenty of garlic and fresh rosemary and mint, that I could not take my eyes off the entire time it was cooking. Big, hearty haunches of meat always make me weak in the knees, just a little bit, and I die a little death every time. It is a happy death, of course. I made the caramelized onion and apple tart that is my favourite vegetarian option; while Margaret also made a salad of greens with red onion and apples and toasted pinenuts, dressed in a ginger-balsamic vinaigrette.
There is something about a dinner party that excites me no end. Last night there was much chatter and pockets of conversation and wine glasses clinking, and we had a ball. At one point I leaned back and smiled while thinking to myself that these were grand times we lived in. Margaret made strawberry shortcake for dessert which was simple and extremely satisfying, and Clayton made us all coffee to close our palate. It was a perfect dinner, with nothing missing, and I enjoyed myself greatly.
Mussels in Saffron and White Wine Broth
1 bag of mussels
1 tsp saffron threads
1 bottle dry white wine
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 large leek, chopped
2 cups chicken broth
Healthy sprinkling of Old Bay
Half as much paprika as Old Bay
Half as much cayenne as paprika
Clean the mussels, picking out the bad ones, and leave them in iced water while making the broth. Pour the white wine and the chicken broth into a large mixing bowl and steep the saffron threads in them. This should ideally sit for about 20 minutes.
When ready to make the broth, fry the bacon in a large pot to a crisp. Starting soups and sauces off with bacon adds so much flavour and smoky goodness, it is a wonder people do not do more of it. When the bacon fat has been rendered, take out the bacon strips and set aside. Add the garlic and leek to the pot and season with the spices. Cook for about five to six minutes and then add the broth. Simmer the mixture for a while – ideally for 15 or more minutes – then add the mussels to cook. Remove them when they open and serve in bowls of the broth.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
An avocado adventure
I had an onion bagel with avocado today.
In the latter part of the morning I went to the coffeeshop with Amanda to work. It is always easier, I feel, to keep your discipline when there is someone else around. I do much good work at home in the early morning while Clayton is still asleep just so I can look at him with disdain and tut-tut when he finally emerges from his room. But once he leaves the house I sometimes lose my focus, especially if I do not have to call into any meetings. So it was that I arranged to meet Amanda; I had not eaten all morning and I was hungry and wanted some fresh orange juice.
The last time we were at the coffeeshop Amanda had gotten an onion bagel with fresh avocado and she got the same thing again today. She broke the avocado slices into smaller cubes with a butter knife and spread it unevenly across her bagel. The bagel was toasted lightly, and flakes of toasted onion crisps fell to her plate as she lifted it this way and that. She did this with her plate next to her on the couch while artfully balancing her laptop in her lap, then held the bagel to her mouth to eat it.
The coffeeshop was unusually crowded with plenty of eye-candy and yet all I noticed was Amanda eating the bagel. I had a bran muffin myself and was nowhere near as satisfied with it as she looked. Amanda has this look about her when she has eaten well – she leans back and gets a dreamy look in her eyes. Once after a meal that I had cooked for her she leaned back in her seat, rubbed her belly with her right hand and said simply, “Mi piace.” It was the highest compliment I have ever gotten.
The French have this expression they use to refer to a need for something to happen – il faut – which I like using because there is nothing in English which comes close. Il faut conveys a singular urgency and necessity that no word in English can replicate. That urgency and necessity reflected exactly and completely my state of mind about the bagel and avocado – I most absolutely had to have one for myself.
I had never had bagels with avocado before and it seemed to me like a strange combination – especially with an onion bagel. Still, when mine came I went through the same ritual Amanda did with it, for fear of not having the same experience. The bagel was toasted to the point where the tips were crisp and crunchy to the bite and had the smell and taste of something burnt, but the inside was still soft and doughy and had all the goodness that bread and bread products have. The avocado was fresh and sweet and not all of it would spread easily on the bagel, but I did the best I could. I rationed my avocado with the bagel that I had perfectly so that my last mouthful was one with just slightly more avocado than all the rest. It was, as experiences go, as satisfying as they come.
I had an onion bagel, toasted, with avocado today, and it changed my life.
In the latter part of the morning I went to the coffeeshop with Amanda to work. It is always easier, I feel, to keep your discipline when there is someone else around. I do much good work at home in the early morning while Clayton is still asleep just so I can look at him with disdain and tut-tut when he finally emerges from his room. But once he leaves the house I sometimes lose my focus, especially if I do not have to call into any meetings. So it was that I arranged to meet Amanda; I had not eaten all morning and I was hungry and wanted some fresh orange juice.
The last time we were at the coffeeshop Amanda had gotten an onion bagel with fresh avocado and she got the same thing again today. She broke the avocado slices into smaller cubes with a butter knife and spread it unevenly across her bagel. The bagel was toasted lightly, and flakes of toasted onion crisps fell to her plate as she lifted it this way and that. She did this with her plate next to her on the couch while artfully balancing her laptop in her lap, then held the bagel to her mouth to eat it.
The coffeeshop was unusually crowded with plenty of eye-candy and yet all I noticed was Amanda eating the bagel. I had a bran muffin myself and was nowhere near as satisfied with it as she looked. Amanda has this look about her when she has eaten well – she leans back and gets a dreamy look in her eyes. Once after a meal that I had cooked for her she leaned back in her seat, rubbed her belly with her right hand and said simply, “Mi piace.” It was the highest compliment I have ever gotten.
The French have this expression they use to refer to a need for something to happen – il faut – which I like using because there is nothing in English which comes close. Il faut conveys a singular urgency and necessity that no word in English can replicate. That urgency and necessity reflected exactly and completely my state of mind about the bagel and avocado – I most absolutely had to have one for myself.
I had never had bagels with avocado before and it seemed to me like a strange combination – especially with an onion bagel. Still, when mine came I went through the same ritual Amanda did with it, for fear of not having the same experience. The bagel was toasted to the point where the tips were crisp and crunchy to the bite and had the smell and taste of something burnt, but the inside was still soft and doughy and had all the goodness that bread and bread products have. The avocado was fresh and sweet and not all of it would spread easily on the bagel, but I did the best I could. I rationed my avocado with the bagel that I had perfectly so that my last mouthful was one with just slightly more avocado than all the rest. It was, as experiences go, as satisfying as they come.
I had an onion bagel, toasted, with avocado today, and it changed my life.
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