Eleven Madison Park
11 Madison Ave (at 24th St)
New York, NY 10010
212-889-0905
A couple of months ago, at dinner with my team from work, we happened upon the conversation topic of restaurants in New York. None of us lived there, and at an hour’s drive Michael was probably the closest, but the common consensus was – for fear of stating the obvious – that New York offered dining options that were far superior to our respective cities. I love DC, but in my opinion it just cannot compare. The sheer quantity and quality of fine dining in a city where everyone is a gourmand is something worth celebrating. So we decided that since we would find ourselves in the city in two weeks, we would throw caution to the wind, and go out for a nice meal.
I was charged with the task of picking a place, and to be honest I probably spent more time thinking about it than necessary. It was kind of like picking your fantasy baseball team, or your March Madness bracket. You check your watch and suddenly it’s four o’clock and you are nowhere near a decision. The occasion – and, more importantly, our budget – did not warrant a trip to one of the “holy quartet”: Per Se, Le Bernardin, Alain Ducasse or Daniel, but everything else was on the table, pardon the pun.
The list was long and distinguished, and I could fill pages upon pages just writing about my decision process, but that wouldn’t be very exciting, would it? Suffice to say that we wound up going to Eleven Madison Park. I had heard good things about it especially after the arrival of Daniel Humm as head chef, and the space was supposed to be excellent. It had not been my first choice but life is full of compromises. You do what you can and you do what you must, and you try not to lose too much of yourself along the way. In this case I hardly lost much by making this compromise.
I arrived on time, which as I have said many times before and will no doubt do so many times again, is early by my company standards. Very early, in fact. I had time for a pre-dinner glass of wine and opted for a glass of the house Châteauneuf du Pape. I don’t remember what it was but I remember not being impressed. I was impressed though, by the dining room. To enter, you walk through revolving doors into a vestibule that gives you no clue and in no way prepares you for the opulence of the dining room. I remember walking in and doing a double-take, pausing to take it all in. It was American Art Deco with a soaring ceiling and 35-foot windows, and was adorned with floral arrangements that belied that often-understated virtue that is so critical to class and taste – restraint. I thought to myself that this space had found its calling (or vice versa), for I could not think of many other things I wanted to do in that room other than eat, and eat well.
Morgan had trailed for a day in the kitchen at Eleven Madison, and remarked to me that Chef Humm ran a tight ship in the kitchen, and was very precise. That precision translated into the rest of the restaurant, with shiny flatware arranged just so on crisp white tablecloths and not a hair out of place. But where the precision shone through the most was the food. Clean lines and cubic shapes dominated the presentation and plates were sauced with care and meticulous exactitude. In a bizarre way it made you want to play with your food, just to mess things up, which I must confess made the meal more enjoyable.
The amuse-bouches threatened to dampen the evening, for out of a bite-sized selection of tuna tartare, sweetbread, and foie gras only the latter took my breath away. But the appetizers and entrées more than made up for the misstep. The beets in the beet salad came cubed (a cute touch), and the gnocchi came with just the right amount of sauce – another nod to the precision of the kitchen. I had never had gnocchi paired with seafood before (it came with shrimp and calamari in a Meyer lemon-based sauce), and the acidity of the sauce and seafood complemented the earthiness of the pasta perfectly.
I had the rabbit for an entrée, but I do not remember much of it because I was hit with the biggest pang of food envy ever known to mankind. Tom and Brody had ordered the Muscovy duck for two, glazed with lavender honey, and after I tried a slice the rest of my meal suddenly became bland and unpalatable. People have remarked that I close my eyes when I enjoy my food but as I ate the duck my eyes were wide open and remained that way for a long while as I muttered, “Wow.” over and over to myself, silently.
I have often wondered if other people’s food only tastes better because you only get one bite of it, but whatever the case I was extremely jealous and mildly bitter. The only reason that I had passed over the duck was because I’d had duck only two nights before (at an establishment not anywhere near the quality of Eleven Madison, unfortunately). But all is not lost. There is fortunately, in my experience, only one cure for this dreaded condition – to come back to the restaurant.
Next time I’m definitely getting the duck.
Wine Tasting Notes:
Gros Frere et Sœur, Clos Vougeot Musigni, 2005 (Jason’s choice)
I’d had this wine before at another similarly opulent dinner at Le Paradou in DC, and had been very impressed, so when I saw it on the wine list it almost picked itself. When he brought it over the sommelier remarked that this was one of his favourites, to which I scoffed, “You must tell that to everyone.” Thankfully he did not take offense at my spot of glibness, but went on to rather earnestly convince me that he really did like the wine. By the end of the conversation I was ready to buy insurance from him. The wine itself was medium to full-bodied, with a great nose and a long smooth finish. It had notes of the dark fruit that I am such a fan of – plums, cherries, blackberries – and also musk and oak. It was a little young, but showed signs of opening into a very lovely, very typically French wine.
Domaine du Vieux Télégraphe, Châteauneuf du Pape, 2000 (Michael’s choice)
I was introduced to Châteauneuf du Pape by Saskia, and have been a fan ever since. In keeping with the French theme Michael picked out this bottle. It was a small step down from the body and structure of the Burgundy that we’d had earlier but still entirely enjoyable. It had the same dark fruit but was sweeter, more fruit-forward and less tannic than the previous wine.
Domaine de la Grange des Peres, 2003 (Brody’s choice)
This was surprisingly very, very good. I don’t know why I had expected so little from it, but I was very, very surprised. In a good way. For the price (it was the cheapest of the three), it was an excellent bottle. Very well rounded and hit every part of your tongue and taste buds with a harmonious balance of sweetness, acidity and tannins. Some wines are good to taste, some wines are good to savour, and some wines are good for just drinking. This one was all three.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tasting Notes 3/22/2008
I have never been one to believe in Zodiac signs and how people born under certain signs get along better with people of certain other signs; but when the birthdays of all your dearest friends seem to cluster together, it does appear to lend credence to that theory, doesn’t it? I find that everyone I know seems to have been born in March, May or October (I myself was born in October). Morgan came down this past weekend to visit and I took the opportunity to throw a dinner party in celebration of his birthday as well as Brian’s and Jenna’s, which are also upcoming.
Beer-braised Mussels with Chicken Sausage:
Morgan and I picked up a 2 lb bag of mussels from Whole Foods and were thoroughly outraged as we picked through them. More than half of them were bad and we wound up with so few to work with that we had to add sausage to the recipe to make a substantial dish. The ones that we did wind up cooking tasted a little flat and had none of the natural sweetness of fresh mussels. The one saving grace was that they were rather large and fleshy but in our minds it was the sort of travesty that class action suits were made of.
Venica & Venica Sauvignon, Ronco delle mele, 2006:
Cool, crisp and not overly sugary, with strong grapefruit and melon accents. Sometimes you have a good wine and it is such an intense experience that you really cannot drink too much of it too quickly, as if every sip took something out of you. The absolute opposite is true of this wine – I just want to gulp it down. It is that enjoyable. My first experience with this wine came last year at Babbo in New York. I remember being secretly delighted that Elisabeth, who was also at the table, did not drink – for that meant more for the rest of us. I am an evil person, I know.
Gaja, Ca’Marcanda Promis, 2005:
My boss told me a story one time of how he was in a dusty town somewhere in Italy, found himself in a winebar in the early afternoon, and asked if the proprietor had any Gaja. The proprietor told him to wait right there and left him and his wife alone in the store, to run the several blocks home to his own cellars. He returned not only with a bottle of Gaja, but with two friends, for the only reason that opening a good bottle of wine is worth it, is if you have good people to drink it with. Apparently they had been waiting for just the occasion to open the bottle together, and my boss’ random question had somehow convinced the proprietor that that was the day it was going to happen. The story then goes, that when asked for his opinion on the wine, my boss had, in a characteristic fit of pomp and circumstance, declared, “E come latte di mamma (It’s like mother’s milk).” The proprietor, taken aback at the verity and eloquence of this statement, finally managed a smile and closed the discussion with equal gravitas – “Signore, cosa dici è molto forte, ma vero (Sir, what you say is very strong – but true).”
Now, Gaja wines are very expensive, especially the ones from the original Gaja estate in Piedmont, and I have no business even thinking about buying them, but fortunately in 1996 Angelo Gaja bought a second vineyard in Tuscany where he now makes three wines – Promis, Magari and the one that carries the estate’s name, Ca’Marcanda – in that order of price and quality. I have not had the Magari, but I remember the Ca’Marcanda to be spicy, complex and very playful. The other day I saw the Promis selling in my neighbourhood liquor store – the probability of which I had previously thought akin to me making out with Nicole Kidman, which is to say on the seventh of never. I decided, on a whim, to purchase several bottles. We opened a bottle of it between dinner courses, and it was perhaps a little too young, but with definite character. I tasted both fruits and nuts – specifically cherries, a hint of pistachios – but it was not as full bodied as I like my red wines. I suppose it is wrong to expect anybody or any thing to be something that they aren’t or it isn’t, so I tried my hardest to appreciate it for what it was.
Duck Leg Confit and Pan-Seared Duck Breast in a Juniper Berry and Honey Sauce, with Roasted Beets and Caramelised Onions:
I love duck. I’d tried a taste of an absolutely phenomenal duck dish at Eleven Madison Park in New York recently, spiced with herbs en Provence and lavender honey, and wanted to recreate it. Unfortunately Whole Foods (those bastards really ruined my meal) did not carry any lavender so we bought some dried juniper berries instead. I’d cured the duck legs in salt, thyme and bay leaves for two days before the meal, and roasted them in rendered duck fat and many, many cloves of garlic. They turned out really, really salty (I might cure them for less time the next time) but crispy and delicious all the same. Morgan timed the duck breasts to perfection and they were remarkably tender. He also did the beets, which were excellent, so that was two for two on his part. Well done Morgan.
Ciacci Piccolomini, Brunello di Montalcino, 2002
2002 was widely acknowledged to be a disastrous year for Brunellos, so I was able to pick up several bottles of my favourite Brunello for under 30 dollars a bottle. I figured that even if it were crap, it was still a Brunello, which should count for something. Now I have had the ‘97s, ‘98s, ‘99s and ‘01s (and have been remarkably lucky in that regard) and there is no doubt that this is by far the worst of the lot, but it is still pretty good. Like the other vintages, this had dark fruit and spice, but nowhere near the levels of body and depth of the others. It was kind of like taking a piece of paper, photocopying it, running the copy through the copier again, and then repeating that step twenty times. The 2002 was a pale shadow of the best Ciacci Brunellos, muted and not as complex, but still entirely enjoyable, especially if you are three bottles into the night.
Beer-braised Mussels with Chicken Sausage:
Morgan and I picked up a 2 lb bag of mussels from Whole Foods and were thoroughly outraged as we picked through them. More than half of them were bad and we wound up with so few to work with that we had to add sausage to the recipe to make a substantial dish. The ones that we did wind up cooking tasted a little flat and had none of the natural sweetness of fresh mussels. The one saving grace was that they were rather large and fleshy but in our minds it was the sort of travesty that class action suits were made of.
Venica & Venica Sauvignon, Ronco delle mele, 2006:
Cool, crisp and not overly sugary, with strong grapefruit and melon accents. Sometimes you have a good wine and it is such an intense experience that you really cannot drink too much of it too quickly, as if every sip took something out of you. The absolute opposite is true of this wine – I just want to gulp it down. It is that enjoyable. My first experience with this wine came last year at Babbo in New York. I remember being secretly delighted that Elisabeth, who was also at the table, did not drink – for that meant more for the rest of us. I am an evil person, I know.
Gaja, Ca’Marcanda Promis, 2005:
My boss told me a story one time of how he was in a dusty town somewhere in Italy, found himself in a winebar in the early afternoon, and asked if the proprietor had any Gaja. The proprietor told him to wait right there and left him and his wife alone in the store, to run the several blocks home to his own cellars. He returned not only with a bottle of Gaja, but with two friends, for the only reason that opening a good bottle of wine is worth it, is if you have good people to drink it with. Apparently they had been waiting for just the occasion to open the bottle together, and my boss’ random question had somehow convinced the proprietor that that was the day it was going to happen. The story then goes, that when asked for his opinion on the wine, my boss had, in a characteristic fit of pomp and circumstance, declared, “E come latte di mamma (It’s like mother’s milk).” The proprietor, taken aback at the verity and eloquence of this statement, finally managed a smile and closed the discussion with equal gravitas – “Signore, cosa dici è molto forte, ma vero (Sir, what you say is very strong – but true).”
Now, Gaja wines are very expensive, especially the ones from the original Gaja estate in Piedmont, and I have no business even thinking about buying them, but fortunately in 1996 Angelo Gaja bought a second vineyard in Tuscany where he now makes three wines – Promis, Magari and the one that carries the estate’s name, Ca’Marcanda – in that order of price and quality. I have not had the Magari, but I remember the Ca’Marcanda to be spicy, complex and very playful. The other day I saw the Promis selling in my neighbourhood liquor store – the probability of which I had previously thought akin to me making out with Nicole Kidman, which is to say on the seventh of never. I decided, on a whim, to purchase several bottles. We opened a bottle of it between dinner courses, and it was perhaps a little too young, but with definite character. I tasted both fruits and nuts – specifically cherries, a hint of pistachios – but it was not as full bodied as I like my red wines. I suppose it is wrong to expect anybody or any thing to be something that they aren’t or it isn’t, so I tried my hardest to appreciate it for what it was.
Duck Leg Confit and Pan-Seared Duck Breast in a Juniper Berry and Honey Sauce, with Roasted Beets and Caramelised Onions:
I love duck. I’d tried a taste of an absolutely phenomenal duck dish at Eleven Madison Park in New York recently, spiced with herbs en Provence and lavender honey, and wanted to recreate it. Unfortunately Whole Foods (those bastards really ruined my meal) did not carry any lavender so we bought some dried juniper berries instead. I’d cured the duck legs in salt, thyme and bay leaves for two days before the meal, and roasted them in rendered duck fat and many, many cloves of garlic. They turned out really, really salty (I might cure them for less time the next time) but crispy and delicious all the same. Morgan timed the duck breasts to perfection and they were remarkably tender. He also did the beets, which were excellent, so that was two for two on his part. Well done Morgan.
Ciacci Piccolomini, Brunello di Montalcino, 2002
2002 was widely acknowledged to be a disastrous year for Brunellos, so I was able to pick up several bottles of my favourite Brunello for under 30 dollars a bottle. I figured that even if it were crap, it was still a Brunello, which should count for something. Now I have had the ‘97s, ‘98s, ‘99s and ‘01s (and have been remarkably lucky in that regard) and there is no doubt that this is by far the worst of the lot, but it is still pretty good. Like the other vintages, this had dark fruit and spice, but nowhere near the levels of body and depth of the others. It was kind of like taking a piece of paper, photocopying it, running the copy through the copier again, and then repeating that step twenty times. The 2002 was a pale shadow of the best Ciacci Brunellos, muted and not as complex, but still entirely enjoyable, especially if you are three bottles into the night.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
La Ville-lumière
It was a warm fall night and as we stood outside the café the bright lights from across the Seine beckoned invitingly. You could see all manner of colour reflected in the water and I wondered if there was anyplace better on the other side of the river. But I knew I would have seen the same lights and thought the same thing if I had been there as opposed to here, so I quickly dispelled that thought and returned to the business of waiting.
We had been early for our reservation and were standing outside because there was no room to wait within. Liz was being particularly jocular and that made the wait quite a bit more bearable. It was funny to think that we had been just a few blocks down earlier in the light of day but suddenly it all seemed quite different at night, like the city were suddenly flush with new and completely different possibilities. Paris was a beautiful place with much womanly charm but the conceit was that she made you think she was all yours, at that moment and for all time, when the fact of the matter was she had never belonged, and could not truly belong, to any one.
They were finally able to seat us and I made it a point to be very deliberate in my actions walking in and taking it all in. I had only two days in Paris this time and only so many meals. While I was waiting I had had a view of almost the entire restaurant through the large windows but it was somehow different actually walking through it. The room was elongated and oddly-shaped – with nooks and crannies that marked somewhat private spaces for some tables. We, however, had a table right in the middle of the restaurant, next to several steps that led to the mezzanine. As I fingered the cardboard menu in my hands I wondered how many trips up and down those steps each waiter made every day.
The place was called Les Bouquinistes, after the book stalls on the banks of the Seine, which the café overlooked. I had been drinking all day but I found that my head was still clear and I was in a café in a city that I loved very much with friends I had not seen in quite a while. We were secure in our triumphs of the week gone past and were talking about who had said and done what that one time we were all together on Lincoln Field and of course none of us was never really wrong. We may have disagreed on several points but it all didn’t matter and of course there had been and always would only be one single truth. There were, however, many points of view.
Lincoln Field had been a long time ago and it made me think what a harsh world this was that breaks you and changes you without you knowing it. It was all I could do to see and hear and learn and understand to get by, to do my work and do what I knew and loved, and do it well but I had changed and so had my friends. It was all different now, of course. But I have found that when you sit down to eat and you drink some of the old times come back. And the more you drank the more it was like before again.
It seemed that nobody understood me when I spoke in French so I gave up pretty quickly and resorted to pointing, as did everyone else. The irony was that our waiter did not look or sound like he was French. The standout of the appetisers was the Brittany crab ravioli, which I only had a bit of but were exquisitely made, with the metallic taste of the ocean in a good way, swathed with glorious butter and tinged with fennel. Nobody really gave a damn what wine we drank for we were in France, and all the wine was good.
The diner’s ideal varies from person to person and the perfect dinner is different for everyone. Some people are just happy to have food put in front of them and not have to clean the dishes and some others are rather more picky. I don’t think I’m overly picky or particular but I do have standards and I know what I like. Elisabeth once said to me as she described her palate and her perfect dinner, “But I’m not a chef. I haven’t studied the culinary arts. I just know what I like to eat.” It was the most innocuous of statements but it was quite powerful. I know what I like from a dinner. The list may be long, but I still shouldn’t have to apologise for it.
That said, it is hard to have a bad meal in Paris. I was in Paris once as a young man, alone and broke, dusty from travel and hungry for sight, sound and nourishment. I tried to be as frugal as I could the first few days, and it mattered not, for even a simple baguette, freshly baked, could have brought me to tears. Three days into my stay I broke down, reasoning that if I could have a great meal for €4, the possibilities would be endless if I were to spend €40. I walked into a sleepy little bistro in the tenth arrondissement, where no tourists go to, and ordered duck confit a l’orange. It was delicious, and the madame who served me smiled beatifically as I wolfed it down.
The funny thing is, I don’t remember what I had at Les Bouquinistes. But it did fulfill most of my criteria for a good dinner out. The food was technically masterful, cooked with care and some of it was quite excellent. We had a knowledgeable waiter – one of my dishes had a creamy blue cheese, not particularly strong, with a mushroom-y flavour that was quite divine, and our waiter knew immediately upon asking what it was (Fourme d’Ambert). The timing of the meal was impeccable: food arrived not a second too early or too late, and we never felt hurried or rushed. And the company, of course, the company made the meal.
We had been early for our reservation and were standing outside because there was no room to wait within. Liz was being particularly jocular and that made the wait quite a bit more bearable. It was funny to think that we had been just a few blocks down earlier in the light of day but suddenly it all seemed quite different at night, like the city were suddenly flush with new and completely different possibilities. Paris was a beautiful place with much womanly charm but the conceit was that she made you think she was all yours, at that moment and for all time, when the fact of the matter was she had never belonged, and could not truly belong, to any one.
They were finally able to seat us and I made it a point to be very deliberate in my actions walking in and taking it all in. I had only two days in Paris this time and only so many meals. While I was waiting I had had a view of almost the entire restaurant through the large windows but it was somehow different actually walking through it. The room was elongated and oddly-shaped – with nooks and crannies that marked somewhat private spaces for some tables. We, however, had a table right in the middle of the restaurant, next to several steps that led to the mezzanine. As I fingered the cardboard menu in my hands I wondered how many trips up and down those steps each waiter made every day.
The place was called Les Bouquinistes, after the book stalls on the banks of the Seine, which the café overlooked. I had been drinking all day but I found that my head was still clear and I was in a café in a city that I loved very much with friends I had not seen in quite a while. We were secure in our triumphs of the week gone past and were talking about who had said and done what that one time we were all together on Lincoln Field and of course none of us was never really wrong. We may have disagreed on several points but it all didn’t matter and of course there had been and always would only be one single truth. There were, however, many points of view.
Lincoln Field had been a long time ago and it made me think what a harsh world this was that breaks you and changes you without you knowing it. It was all I could do to see and hear and learn and understand to get by, to do my work and do what I knew and loved, and do it well but I had changed and so had my friends. It was all different now, of course. But I have found that when you sit down to eat and you drink some of the old times come back. And the more you drank the more it was like before again.
It seemed that nobody understood me when I spoke in French so I gave up pretty quickly and resorted to pointing, as did everyone else. The irony was that our waiter did not look or sound like he was French. The standout of the appetisers was the Brittany crab ravioli, which I only had a bit of but were exquisitely made, with the metallic taste of the ocean in a good way, swathed with glorious butter and tinged with fennel. Nobody really gave a damn what wine we drank for we were in France, and all the wine was good.
The diner’s ideal varies from person to person and the perfect dinner is different for everyone. Some people are just happy to have food put in front of them and not have to clean the dishes and some others are rather more picky. I don’t think I’m overly picky or particular but I do have standards and I know what I like. Elisabeth once said to me as she described her palate and her perfect dinner, “But I’m not a chef. I haven’t studied the culinary arts. I just know what I like to eat.” It was the most innocuous of statements but it was quite powerful. I know what I like from a dinner. The list may be long, but I still shouldn’t have to apologise for it.
That said, it is hard to have a bad meal in Paris. I was in Paris once as a young man, alone and broke, dusty from travel and hungry for sight, sound and nourishment. I tried to be as frugal as I could the first few days, and it mattered not, for even a simple baguette, freshly baked, could have brought me to tears. Three days into my stay I broke down, reasoning that if I could have a great meal for €4, the possibilities would be endless if I were to spend €40. I walked into a sleepy little bistro in the tenth arrondissement, where no tourists go to, and ordered duck confit a l’orange. It was delicious, and the madame who served me smiled beatifically as I wolfed it down.
The funny thing is, I don’t remember what I had at Les Bouquinistes. But it did fulfill most of my criteria for a good dinner out. The food was technically masterful, cooked with care and some of it was quite excellent. We had a knowledgeable waiter – one of my dishes had a creamy blue cheese, not particularly strong, with a mushroom-y flavour that was quite divine, and our waiter knew immediately upon asking what it was (Fourme d’Ambert). The timing of the meal was impeccable: food arrived not a second too early or too late, and we never felt hurried or rushed. And the company, of course, the company made the meal.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
A Taste of Tuscany, or Notes in a Symphony
Blue Duck Tavern
1201 24th St NW (24th and M St)
Washington DC
202-419-6755
In the play Amadeus, Salieri makes the realization that his nemesis, the great Mozart, composed his symphonies entirely in his head – with parts for the string and the wind and the percussion all written into a finished product before he even committed pen to paper. Whether this was true I do not know, but if it were then one can only imagine his excitement when transcribing these finished works of genius, as if he were unearthing, bit by bit, that which was already whole and complete. Replace one note, or remove one note; and the symphony would be diminished. That is sometimes how I feel about food – that on that rare occasion, everything comes together in a sumptuous fusion of taste and texture that to modify it would be to lessen it, and would be the most cardinal of sins. That is also how I feel, most of the time, about the best Brunello di Montalcino that I have had the fortune of tasting.
One of my first experiences with this fabled grape came two years ago at a restaurant out in Fairfax, VA called simply, 2941. That restaurant experience, while fabulous, is another story for another time. That night I had a bottle of 1997 Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona, and it was a moment of clarity. It was like someone had smacked me and I had to sit down – it was that good. I recently dug up some of the emails I had sent out the morning after that dinner – written in a frantic hand and with a messenger’s urgency – and in one particular communication I raved, “it was like drinking silk”. I described the wine to Morgan after the fact and joked that I would never be able to go back to Chianti again. He seemed very disturbed, and we laughed it off, but I must admit that ever since that day, I rarely order Chiantis any more.
Brunello is a variant of the Sangiovese grape, grown in the town of Montalcino in Tuscany, Italy. Most Brunello that I have had have been big, rounded wines – usually a deep red hue and with beautiful legs in the glass. They take a while to open up, but enough patience and the bouquet, usually very floral, soon opens up into a lush ensemble of flavours, emboldened by a strong tannic structure and an acidic tang that washes over the middle of your tongue. They are fruity, but the fruit is more an accent than a point of focus – and usually dark fruit – plums, cherries, blueberries, sometimes hints of chocolate. I feel, at least, that Brunello more so than any other grape I have tasted, stimulates all the areas of the tongue and is perhaps the most rounded, most complete wine drinking experience. For lack of a more elegant expression it is a Mozart symphony in your mouth, and swallowing seems like such a pity every time. Such a shame that they are so expensive; but I suppose you do get what you pay for.
But I digress. The DC contingent of my firm gathered for lunch recently to celebrate the end of a successful year, and I took the chance to suggest one of the restaurants I had been meaning to try for a while – the Blue Duck Tavern, a Foggy Bottom establishment in the corner of the Park Hyatt. Formerly Melrose, it had reopened last year under the stewardship of Brian McBride, and prides itself on being a contemporary American tavern, using American farm-grown ingredients and time-honoured techniques like roasting, braising, preserving and smoking in the preparation of wholesome American fare. RK had also promised to bring along a couple of bottles of his finest, so I had another reason to look forward to this.
I arrived on time – which is early by our company standards – and took the opportunity to invite myself on the grand tour. Alejandra, our gracious waitress who we would grow quite fond of throughout the meal, indulged me and walked me through the place. There were but a scattering of diners – it was lunch, after all – and the restaurant seemed pristine and unblemished, with a relaxing aura of decadence hanging about. The Blue Duck Tavern is, simply put, quite beautiful. Soaring ceilings and windows let in an abundance of natural light and enclose a space that is marked by lacquered brown marble, clean lines and – my favourite bit – concrete pillars for that Brutalist touch. The interior – designed by Tony Chi – was one of those which just plain made sense. You walked in and there was a natural order, a intuited path, a promenade that the gently sloping walkways led you down, past the pastry chef’s table with the gingerbread house, past the commis and cold stations, past the sprawling open kitchen – pausing to admire the wood oven at the end of the room – and finally to your table.
The open kitchen deserves further mention; I must have stopped for an eternity and gazed upon it in slack jawed amazement – and I was later able to wander through it once more, stopping to talk to the cooks. It was lunch time, so there was none of the hustle and bustle you normally associated with kitchens, but instead an almost pastoral scene of several smartly-dressed cooks moving, no, gliding about the gargantuan range briskly and wordlessly. The saucier hunched over his many bubbling pots, dipping, tasting, his mind surely whirling with the possibilities and permutations, oblivious to his audience. The most amazing bit was that it was all there, every last bit of the kitchen. Usually, open kitchens are small façades that hide the proper kitchen – where all the actual cooking gets done. It hurts to think about it, but the back is where all the dirty stuff happens, where chefs yell at their cooks Gordon Ramsay-style and grill-masters who are too hung-over to speak drop your steak on the ground, pick it up, and throw it back on the grill without so much as a second thought. This was not the case at the Blue Duck Tavern. Everything, soup to nuts – except perhaps the dishwashing station, was laid bare for all to see.
RK had brought three wines – and we decided to have a blind tasting of the three. The first was easy enough to place – a classic Bordeaux with a barnyard nose and hints of apple, still keeping strong in spite of its obvious age (we found out later that it was a 1986 Chateau L’Eglise-Clinet). It had begun to lose some of its colour but none of its lustre. It was a great start to the meal, and we were a good way through the bottle before our appetisers even arrived.
The next wine we had was a little fuller, fruitier and spicier, with less terroir. It turned out to be a Gaja Super Tuscan (Ca’ Marcanda Toscana Magari, 2004). It filled us with much anticipation to try the third and last wine, which was – after all had been said and done – our unanimous favourite out of the three. I don’t know how many bottles of Brunello RK has in his basement, but there is one less now. We had a 1997 Fanti, which was everything that a Brunello should be – big, strong, complex and yet so, so enjoyable. I would write about it, but my words would do it no justice.
The food itself was simply executed: I started with an heirloom beet salad, slippery and slivery with the right amount of vinaigrette and crumbly, melting goat cheese. The delightful twist to this dish was the addition of roasted spiced pumpkin seeds, which added a lovely crunch to each bite. Others at the table went with a pumpkin bisque with duck confit, a fall dish if there ever was one, and which I did not taste but was a lovely colour.
The entrees at the Blue Duck Tavern come in little serving bowls, which you do not eat off of. The greatly facilitates the sharing of food between people, and was heartening to see, for I grew up eating meals “family-style”, as it is known here. This name always amused me, for it was the only style I knew, so to give it a name seemed rather superfluous. In any case, the standout was the wild mushroom sauté – the chanterelles were first and foremost fresh; but also sweet and meaty and juicy and cooked perfectly. My brother does not eat mushrooms – he says that the texture puts him off – but I say that he is crazy. The perfect chanterelle – sautéd in a pat of butter and maybe some parsley – has just the right amount of resistance to the bite. Who could say no to seconds?
I personally ordered the venison sausage and sauerkraut which, while very good was not life-changing. It gave rise again to my eternal, internal dilemma – to order what I really want to eat, or to order what a restaurant is good at making? Most times I just order what I am in the mood for, which may or may not be a restaurant’s signature and while perfectly pleasing may not be the optimum dining experience. But sometimes the best dish at a restaurant may not be what you are in the mood for, so what, then? Damned if I know.
What I did know was that also on the table was the beef braised short ribs, which were excellent – perhaps a dash too much paprika but otherwise meltingly tender and succulent, with a deep, full flavour of spice and wine and other bone-warming ingredients. It was not cold out, and most certainly not in the restaurant, but I almost wished it had been. Who knew how much more orgasmic the combination of braised short ribs and Brunello might have been?
When it came time to go it was already the middle of the afternoon, on a Friday, no less – about that time when people stop working and kick back after a week’s exertions. We were not about to go back to work, and as we went our separate ways I knew in my heart of hearts what would be the perfect icing on the cake after a lunch of decadence – a long, wine-induced, mid-afternoon nap.
1201 24th St NW (24th and M St)
Washington DC
202-419-6755
In the play Amadeus, Salieri makes the realization that his nemesis, the great Mozart, composed his symphonies entirely in his head – with parts for the string and the wind and the percussion all written into a finished product before he even committed pen to paper. Whether this was true I do not know, but if it were then one can only imagine his excitement when transcribing these finished works of genius, as if he were unearthing, bit by bit, that which was already whole and complete. Replace one note, or remove one note; and the symphony would be diminished. That is sometimes how I feel about food – that on that rare occasion, everything comes together in a sumptuous fusion of taste and texture that to modify it would be to lessen it, and would be the most cardinal of sins. That is also how I feel, most of the time, about the best Brunello di Montalcino that I have had the fortune of tasting.
One of my first experiences with this fabled grape came two years ago at a restaurant out in Fairfax, VA called simply, 2941. That restaurant experience, while fabulous, is another story for another time. That night I had a bottle of 1997 Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona, and it was a moment of clarity. It was like someone had smacked me and I had to sit down – it was that good. I recently dug up some of the emails I had sent out the morning after that dinner – written in a frantic hand and with a messenger’s urgency – and in one particular communication I raved, “it was like drinking silk”. I described the wine to Morgan after the fact and joked that I would never be able to go back to Chianti again. He seemed very disturbed, and we laughed it off, but I must admit that ever since that day, I rarely order Chiantis any more.
Brunello is a variant of the Sangiovese grape, grown in the town of Montalcino in Tuscany, Italy. Most Brunello that I have had have been big, rounded wines – usually a deep red hue and with beautiful legs in the glass. They take a while to open up, but enough patience and the bouquet, usually very floral, soon opens up into a lush ensemble of flavours, emboldened by a strong tannic structure and an acidic tang that washes over the middle of your tongue. They are fruity, but the fruit is more an accent than a point of focus – and usually dark fruit – plums, cherries, blueberries, sometimes hints of chocolate. I feel, at least, that Brunello more so than any other grape I have tasted, stimulates all the areas of the tongue and is perhaps the most rounded, most complete wine drinking experience. For lack of a more elegant expression it is a Mozart symphony in your mouth, and swallowing seems like such a pity every time. Such a shame that they are so expensive; but I suppose you do get what you pay for.
But I digress. The DC contingent of my firm gathered for lunch recently to celebrate the end of a successful year, and I took the chance to suggest one of the restaurants I had been meaning to try for a while – the Blue Duck Tavern, a Foggy Bottom establishment in the corner of the Park Hyatt. Formerly Melrose, it had reopened last year under the stewardship of Brian McBride, and prides itself on being a contemporary American tavern, using American farm-grown ingredients and time-honoured techniques like roasting, braising, preserving and smoking in the preparation of wholesome American fare. RK had also promised to bring along a couple of bottles of his finest, so I had another reason to look forward to this.
I arrived on time – which is early by our company standards – and took the opportunity to invite myself on the grand tour. Alejandra, our gracious waitress who we would grow quite fond of throughout the meal, indulged me and walked me through the place. There were but a scattering of diners – it was lunch, after all – and the restaurant seemed pristine and unblemished, with a relaxing aura of decadence hanging about. The Blue Duck Tavern is, simply put, quite beautiful. Soaring ceilings and windows let in an abundance of natural light and enclose a space that is marked by lacquered brown marble, clean lines and – my favourite bit – concrete pillars for that Brutalist touch. The interior – designed by Tony Chi – was one of those which just plain made sense. You walked in and there was a natural order, a intuited path, a promenade that the gently sloping walkways led you down, past the pastry chef’s table with the gingerbread house, past the commis and cold stations, past the sprawling open kitchen – pausing to admire the wood oven at the end of the room – and finally to your table.
The open kitchen deserves further mention; I must have stopped for an eternity and gazed upon it in slack jawed amazement – and I was later able to wander through it once more, stopping to talk to the cooks. It was lunch time, so there was none of the hustle and bustle you normally associated with kitchens, but instead an almost pastoral scene of several smartly-dressed cooks moving, no, gliding about the gargantuan range briskly and wordlessly. The saucier hunched over his many bubbling pots, dipping, tasting, his mind surely whirling with the possibilities and permutations, oblivious to his audience. The most amazing bit was that it was all there, every last bit of the kitchen. Usually, open kitchens are small façades that hide the proper kitchen – where all the actual cooking gets done. It hurts to think about it, but the back is where all the dirty stuff happens, where chefs yell at their cooks Gordon Ramsay-style and grill-masters who are too hung-over to speak drop your steak on the ground, pick it up, and throw it back on the grill without so much as a second thought. This was not the case at the Blue Duck Tavern. Everything, soup to nuts – except perhaps the dishwashing station, was laid bare for all to see.
RK had brought three wines – and we decided to have a blind tasting of the three. The first was easy enough to place – a classic Bordeaux with a barnyard nose and hints of apple, still keeping strong in spite of its obvious age (we found out later that it was a 1986 Chateau L’Eglise-Clinet). It had begun to lose some of its colour but none of its lustre. It was a great start to the meal, and we were a good way through the bottle before our appetisers even arrived.
The next wine we had was a little fuller, fruitier and spicier, with less terroir. It turned out to be a Gaja Super Tuscan (Ca’ Marcanda Toscana Magari, 2004). It filled us with much anticipation to try the third and last wine, which was – after all had been said and done – our unanimous favourite out of the three. I don’t know how many bottles of Brunello RK has in his basement, but there is one less now. We had a 1997 Fanti, which was everything that a Brunello should be – big, strong, complex and yet so, so enjoyable. I would write about it, but my words would do it no justice.
The food itself was simply executed: I started with an heirloom beet salad, slippery and slivery with the right amount of vinaigrette and crumbly, melting goat cheese. The delightful twist to this dish was the addition of roasted spiced pumpkin seeds, which added a lovely crunch to each bite. Others at the table went with a pumpkin bisque with duck confit, a fall dish if there ever was one, and which I did not taste but was a lovely colour.
The entrees at the Blue Duck Tavern come in little serving bowls, which you do not eat off of. The greatly facilitates the sharing of food between people, and was heartening to see, for I grew up eating meals “family-style”, as it is known here. This name always amused me, for it was the only style I knew, so to give it a name seemed rather superfluous. In any case, the standout was the wild mushroom sauté – the chanterelles were first and foremost fresh; but also sweet and meaty and juicy and cooked perfectly. My brother does not eat mushrooms – he says that the texture puts him off – but I say that he is crazy. The perfect chanterelle – sautéd in a pat of butter and maybe some parsley – has just the right amount of resistance to the bite. Who could say no to seconds?
I personally ordered the venison sausage and sauerkraut which, while very good was not life-changing. It gave rise again to my eternal, internal dilemma – to order what I really want to eat, or to order what a restaurant is good at making? Most times I just order what I am in the mood for, which may or may not be a restaurant’s signature and while perfectly pleasing may not be the optimum dining experience. But sometimes the best dish at a restaurant may not be what you are in the mood for, so what, then? Damned if I know.
What I did know was that also on the table was the beef braised short ribs, which were excellent – perhaps a dash too much paprika but otherwise meltingly tender and succulent, with a deep, full flavour of spice and wine and other bone-warming ingredients. It was not cold out, and most certainly not in the restaurant, but I almost wished it had been. Who knew how much more orgasmic the combination of braised short ribs and Brunello might have been?
When it came time to go it was already the middle of the afternoon, on a Friday, no less – about that time when people stop working and kick back after a week’s exertions. We were not about to go back to work, and as we went our separate ways I knew in my heart of hearts what would be the perfect icing on the cake after a lunch of decadence – a long, wine-induced, mid-afternoon nap.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of the perfect chili recipe
I know it is somewhat irrational, but I always get mildly annoyed whenever asked the question, “So what kind of food do you cook?” I think this is due to the fact that I cannot answer the question, at least not succinctly. I think of cooking first and foremost in terms of techniques, then in terms of ingredients, and then cuisines. This is to say that in my mind my cooking knowledge is primarily organised in terms of “how-to”s – how to salt-crust a sea bass, how to confit a duck leg – and secondarily in terms of “what”s – I love working with red meats and shellfish, and have a weakness for garlic. It is not often instinctive, for me, to identify a dish I make with its country or culture of origin.
Yet it is almost always the case that its place of origin is central to the dish itself, and cannot be ignored. Take Texas-style chili, for example. For me at least, it conjures images of a chilly December evening somewhere in the Lone Star State – with gray skies and fast fading light at five o’clock in the afternoon and a pot of chili simmering on the stove. Now I have never lived in Texas, but it is almost as if I did not need to. Here is my adaptation of Texas-style chili – traditionally made with beef but in this case with the addition of gamier meats – using cooking techniques I have picked up along the years that may not necessarily be traditional to making chili. Simon, Joanna and I made this recipe for this year's edition of Frank's Chili Bowl, our annual DC chili cookoff. It was, I'd like to think, very well received, but we still came in second to a team who not only bribed the judges with a round of shots, but who had also added corn to their chili. The humanity!
Yes, I am bitter. Deal with it.
Three-Meat, Three-Bean, "Team Gravedigga-digga-digga" Chili
2 pounds venison, ground
2 pounds wild boar, ground
1 pound beef (at least 90% lean), ground
2 bay leaves
Peppercorns
1 can Guinness
1 can black beans
1 can red kidney beans
1 can pinto beans
1 head garlic
2 leeks, diced
1 large onion, diced
2 sticks celery, diced
3 bell peppers, roasted and diced
4 habanero peppers, diced
4 jalapeno peppers, diced
4 poblano peppers, diced
3 tomatoes
1 can tomato paste
1½ cups beef broth
Paprika
Cayenne
Cumin
Chili Powder
Nutmeg
Oregano
Old Bay seasoning
Hot Sauce
2 strips bacon
½ stick butter
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
Honey
1 tsp espresso beans, ground
1 square unsweetened baking chocolate
Mix the ground meats and rub thoroughly with the dry spices, salt and pepper, moistening slightly with hot sauce if needed. Leave the meats to sit for 45 minutes to half an hour. Add the Guinness, making sure to submerge the meats. Add two bay leaves and a handful of loose peppercorns to the mixture and refrigerate at least 3 hours and preferably overnight. The beer marinade helps to soften the gaminess of the venison, and is an important step not to be rushed.
Pre-heat oven to 400F.
Cut the top of the head of garlic and roast in tin foil with a drizzle of olive oil for 15 to 20 minutes, till browned. Remove and set aside till cool enough to be handled. Meanwhile, place the leeks, onions, celery and tomatoes in a baking pan, drizzle with olive oil and season lightly with all of the dry spices. Roast at 400F for 25 to 30 minutes. Roasting vegetables before adding them to the chili helps to bring out and intensify their flavours.
While the vegetables are roasting, render the fat from the bacon in a large pot and then brown the meat in batches, removing when done. Reserve any drippings. In the same pot, melt the butter on high heat – you should smell a nutty aroma from the burning butter – taking care not to let it get too hot. Once butter is entirely melted, remove from heat and stir in flour. Mix well into a thick, gooey brown paste. This is called making a roux. Keep mixing and bring the roux back onto low heat. Ideally you want to cook your roux to a honey nut brown colour, which usually takes 10 to 12 minutes.
Once you have made your roux, add the vegetables and diced peppers and cook well, about 6 to 8 minutes. Smash and mince the roasted garlic and add to the pot. Season with the dry spices. It is important to allow the vegetables to cook for a little while before seasoning or adding the other ingredients, to create a good soffritto, or flavour base.
Add the meats, drippings, beef broth, honey, tomato paste, espresso grounds and baking chocolate; and season to taste with the dry spices and hot sauce. Bring to a gentle boil and then allow the chili to cook at a simmer for at least 3 hours. About 1 and a half hours before your scheduled end, add the beans to the mixture. This will ensure that the beans cook through, but are still somewhat firm to the bite.
Makes roughly 5 quarts of chili – which probably serves about 10-15 people.
Variation: Different meats can be used if venison or wild boar are not readily available. However, one should take care to use different meats, or if restricted to one particular meat, at least different cuts of the same meat (eg. chuck, top loin, and oxtail of beef). This gives the chili depth of flavour.
Note: I have left out quantities of the dry spices because I do not know exactly how much we used, and because I also believe, anyway, that this is a matter of tasting for personal preference and should be left up to the individual chef to decide.
Yet it is almost always the case that its place of origin is central to the dish itself, and cannot be ignored. Take Texas-style chili, for example. For me at least, it conjures images of a chilly December evening somewhere in the Lone Star State – with gray skies and fast fading light at five o’clock in the afternoon and a pot of chili simmering on the stove. Now I have never lived in Texas, but it is almost as if I did not need to. Here is my adaptation of Texas-style chili – traditionally made with beef but in this case with the addition of gamier meats – using cooking techniques I have picked up along the years that may not necessarily be traditional to making chili. Simon, Joanna and I made this recipe for this year's edition of Frank's Chili Bowl, our annual DC chili cookoff. It was, I'd like to think, very well received, but we still came in second to a team who not only bribed the judges with a round of shots, but who had also added corn to their chili. The humanity!
Yes, I am bitter. Deal with it.
Three-Meat, Three-Bean, "Team Gravedigga-digga-digga" Chili
2 pounds venison, ground
2 pounds wild boar, ground
1 pound beef (at least 90% lean), ground
2 bay leaves
Peppercorns
1 can Guinness
1 can black beans
1 can red kidney beans
1 can pinto beans
1 head garlic
2 leeks, diced
1 large onion, diced
2 sticks celery, diced
3 bell peppers, roasted and diced
4 habanero peppers, diced
4 jalapeno peppers, diced
4 poblano peppers, diced
3 tomatoes
1 can tomato paste
1½ cups beef broth
Paprika
Cayenne
Cumin
Chili Powder
Nutmeg
Oregano
Old Bay seasoning
Hot Sauce
2 strips bacon
½ stick butter
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
Honey
1 tsp espresso beans, ground
1 square unsweetened baking chocolate
Mix the ground meats and rub thoroughly with the dry spices, salt and pepper, moistening slightly with hot sauce if needed. Leave the meats to sit for 45 minutes to half an hour. Add the Guinness, making sure to submerge the meats. Add two bay leaves and a handful of loose peppercorns to the mixture and refrigerate at least 3 hours and preferably overnight. The beer marinade helps to soften the gaminess of the venison, and is an important step not to be rushed.
Pre-heat oven to 400F.
Cut the top of the head of garlic and roast in tin foil with a drizzle of olive oil for 15 to 20 minutes, till browned. Remove and set aside till cool enough to be handled. Meanwhile, place the leeks, onions, celery and tomatoes in a baking pan, drizzle with olive oil and season lightly with all of the dry spices. Roast at 400F for 25 to 30 minutes. Roasting vegetables before adding them to the chili helps to bring out and intensify their flavours.
While the vegetables are roasting, render the fat from the bacon in a large pot and then brown the meat in batches, removing when done. Reserve any drippings. In the same pot, melt the butter on high heat – you should smell a nutty aroma from the burning butter – taking care not to let it get too hot. Once butter is entirely melted, remove from heat and stir in flour. Mix well into a thick, gooey brown paste. This is called making a roux. Keep mixing and bring the roux back onto low heat. Ideally you want to cook your roux to a honey nut brown colour, which usually takes 10 to 12 minutes.
Once you have made your roux, add the vegetables and diced peppers and cook well, about 6 to 8 minutes. Smash and mince the roasted garlic and add to the pot. Season with the dry spices. It is important to allow the vegetables to cook for a little while before seasoning or adding the other ingredients, to create a good soffritto, or flavour base.
Add the meats, drippings, beef broth, honey, tomato paste, espresso grounds and baking chocolate; and season to taste with the dry spices and hot sauce. Bring to a gentle boil and then allow the chili to cook at a simmer for at least 3 hours. About 1 and a half hours before your scheduled end, add the beans to the mixture. This will ensure that the beans cook through, but are still somewhat firm to the bite.
Makes roughly 5 quarts of chili – which probably serves about 10-15 people.
Variation: Different meats can be used if venison or wild boar are not readily available. However, one should take care to use different meats, or if restricted to one particular meat, at least different cuts of the same meat (eg. chuck, top loin, and oxtail of beef). This gives the chili depth of flavour.
Note: I have left out quantities of the dry spices because I do not know exactly how much we used, and because I also believe, anyway, that this is a matter of tasting for personal preference and should be left up to the individual chef to decide.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The comfort of strangers
Toro
1704 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-536-4300
I read Michael Ruhlman’s The Soul of a Chef recently, and was astounded by the bit in which he reveals that on a particular night, Tom Keller and his kitchen at the French Laundry had produced a total of nearly seventy different dishes. At a restaurant where dishes are known to be diverse, innovative, and laborious to prepare, this feat is quite humbling. It is even more humbling when you figure that a significant number of those dishes were probably made up on the spot. It made me wonder just how well-oiled a machine the kitchen line can be when at its best, and gave me a newfound respect for restaurants that offer tasting menus, even multiple tasting menus – as the French Laundry does – or, otherwise, serve dishes tapas-style.
It was in this frame of mind, then, that I visited Toro – a Ken Oringer establishment in the South End of Boston’s Back Bay – that had been highly recommended by two dear friends. I had been instructed to “whatever you do, get the ceviche” by Reed, while Margaret had personally agreed to come along, but not before the requisite raving about the place. I roped in Allison – new to the area – and Jeffrey – who had lived in Cambridge for a year but was a self-confessed novice to the areas across the Charles. I was a little worried that they would not get along, but these fears were soon proved to be unfounded.
I got off work early – which always puts me in a good mood – and after some orchestration via cellphone, was soon on my way to meet Jeffrey and Allison for a pre-dinner coffee. The air was crisp with the smell of a newly-arrived fall, and the conversation flowed easily as we crowded around a small table top in a coffee place on Massachusetts Ave. There is a poignancy about the cusps of seasons – as if the world is flush with the hope of a new beginning, yet silently struggling to close the chapter on the old.
Margaret soon arrived to pick us all up, and we crowded excitedly into the car. She had evidently just taken a shower; for she smelled of flowers and minerals and her hair was wet and streaky. She looked lovely. We barreled forward to the restaurant, and Jeff filled the car with his chatter about the buildings on either side of us. He is doing a Masters in Urban Planning, and having seen and heard the way he talks and thinks about buildings and spaces and his whole conception of place, I am hard-pressed to think of anyone else doing anything so true to his or her calling.
Toro does not take reservations, so we stood by the bar to wait for a table of 4 to open up. It is housed in what used to be a meat market, and has dark sensuous walls of exposed brick. There is a fireplace in the back, behind the bread counter, and the semi-open kitchen next to it flows uninterrupted into an elegant bar area. Large mirrors adorn the walls, making the space appear bigger than it actually is, and there are two long communal tables in the center of the room for cafeteria-style dining. Jeff ordered some red wine sangria, which needed a little more sugar and a whole lot more wine, but was quite delicious nonetheless.
The wait extended far beyond the promised 20 minutes, which would have rankled more if not for the easy conversation. The hostess was also exceedingly pleasant and acceded to our request to start ordering. Once we had done so, however, the food arrived almost instantaneously. It was a curious phenomenon. We started with olives, cheese-stuffed dates wrapped in jamon serrano, a potato-onion omelette, and a dish of cuttlefish in squid ink. The latter was my favourite as it reminded me of a dish I used to have as a child, when we would go to my grandmother’s for dinner. For the longest time I always thought that she made it, so when I eventually found out that it was store-bought it marked a critical piece in my jigsaw of growing up.
When we were eventually seated it was near to the kitchen, and we immediately set about the business of ordering more food. The thing about tapas is that it is the perfect food for the indecisive; but leave four indecisive people with a menu of 30-something choices and ask them to whittle that down to 10 or 12, and we could have been there all night. There were some things we couldn’t do without: Reed’s recommendation of the octopus ceviche, the grilled corn with alioli and contija cheese which Margaret said was the restaurant’s signature, and the deep-fried salt-cod fritters that I had a fixing for. But the other choices were tough ones to make, and once the die had been cast and the orders placed I immediately felt a tinge or two of regret.
The tapas started arriving immediately, which suited our ravenous selves very well indeed. The ceviche was, as promised, out of this world. It was flavoured in a yellow pepper sauce, with plenty of cilantro and mint and had a tangy but not caustic aftertaste. That, and the corn, justified their recommendations; the corn being an explosion of buttery and milky flavor accentuated with lime. Other standouts were the Kobe sliders (not even remotely Spanish, but delicious nonetheless) and the smoked duck drumettes. There were a couple of misses too, though, including the wild mushroom sauté – which did not have a precise flavor profile and could also have stood being cooked a little longer – and the sweetbreads, which had been left out for too long and had become slightly soggy once it got to us. We had also ordered the seafood paella, which came in a huge pan that took up most of the precious real estate on the table. It was cooked well even though it could have used more saffron. Yet there was an abundance of clams and mussels to go around, and so we could not complain.
All through dinner the conversation flowed like wine, and I felt genuinely happy to be amongst friends who I had not seen in a while. I did not know how everyone else felt, for meeting new people is a challenge that is both scary and exciting, much less dining with them. But there was no awkwardness, and we each found and fell into a comfortable groove as the night wore on.
The very best dining experiences are predicated on the façade that everything in the here and now – the front of the house, the back of the house, the house itself, décor, ambience, music – is working harmoniously towards the complete enjoyment of the diner. The best restaurants keep up this façade: waitstaff never appear hurried or harried, tables never look like they are uncleaned, and the food is done right, done well, and done with pride.
At the end of the night, I realised why the wait for tables was so long, while the wait for the food was almost non-existent. The way I figure it, the kitchen and waitstaff would have no problem handling more tables and more turns, but because the restaurant is such a great place to linger and the whole concept of tapas encourages this behaviour, actually seating diners is a problem. Despite the wait time, Toro did a good job of keeping up the façade that night, and that only added a welcome gloss to what was a perfectly enjoyable evening.
1704 Washington St
Boston, MA 02118
617-536-4300
I read Michael Ruhlman’s The Soul of a Chef recently, and was astounded by the bit in which he reveals that on a particular night, Tom Keller and his kitchen at the French Laundry had produced a total of nearly seventy different dishes. At a restaurant where dishes are known to be diverse, innovative, and laborious to prepare, this feat is quite humbling. It is even more humbling when you figure that a significant number of those dishes were probably made up on the spot. It made me wonder just how well-oiled a machine the kitchen line can be when at its best, and gave me a newfound respect for restaurants that offer tasting menus, even multiple tasting menus – as the French Laundry does – or, otherwise, serve dishes tapas-style.
It was in this frame of mind, then, that I visited Toro – a Ken Oringer establishment in the South End of Boston’s Back Bay – that had been highly recommended by two dear friends. I had been instructed to “whatever you do, get the ceviche” by Reed, while Margaret had personally agreed to come along, but not before the requisite raving about the place. I roped in Allison – new to the area – and Jeffrey – who had lived in Cambridge for a year but was a self-confessed novice to the areas across the Charles. I was a little worried that they would not get along, but these fears were soon proved to be unfounded.
I got off work early – which always puts me in a good mood – and after some orchestration via cellphone, was soon on my way to meet Jeffrey and Allison for a pre-dinner coffee. The air was crisp with the smell of a newly-arrived fall, and the conversation flowed easily as we crowded around a small table top in a coffee place on Massachusetts Ave. There is a poignancy about the cusps of seasons – as if the world is flush with the hope of a new beginning, yet silently struggling to close the chapter on the old.
Margaret soon arrived to pick us all up, and we crowded excitedly into the car. She had evidently just taken a shower; for she smelled of flowers and minerals and her hair was wet and streaky. She looked lovely. We barreled forward to the restaurant, and Jeff filled the car with his chatter about the buildings on either side of us. He is doing a Masters in Urban Planning, and having seen and heard the way he talks and thinks about buildings and spaces and his whole conception of place, I am hard-pressed to think of anyone else doing anything so true to his or her calling.
Toro does not take reservations, so we stood by the bar to wait for a table of 4 to open up. It is housed in what used to be a meat market, and has dark sensuous walls of exposed brick. There is a fireplace in the back, behind the bread counter, and the semi-open kitchen next to it flows uninterrupted into an elegant bar area. Large mirrors adorn the walls, making the space appear bigger than it actually is, and there are two long communal tables in the center of the room for cafeteria-style dining. Jeff ordered some red wine sangria, which needed a little more sugar and a whole lot more wine, but was quite delicious nonetheless.
The wait extended far beyond the promised 20 minutes, which would have rankled more if not for the easy conversation. The hostess was also exceedingly pleasant and acceded to our request to start ordering. Once we had done so, however, the food arrived almost instantaneously. It was a curious phenomenon. We started with olives, cheese-stuffed dates wrapped in jamon serrano, a potato-onion omelette, and a dish of cuttlefish in squid ink. The latter was my favourite as it reminded me of a dish I used to have as a child, when we would go to my grandmother’s for dinner. For the longest time I always thought that she made it, so when I eventually found out that it was store-bought it marked a critical piece in my jigsaw of growing up.
When we were eventually seated it was near to the kitchen, and we immediately set about the business of ordering more food. The thing about tapas is that it is the perfect food for the indecisive; but leave four indecisive people with a menu of 30-something choices and ask them to whittle that down to 10 or 12, and we could have been there all night. There were some things we couldn’t do without: Reed’s recommendation of the octopus ceviche, the grilled corn with alioli and contija cheese which Margaret said was the restaurant’s signature, and the deep-fried salt-cod fritters that I had a fixing for. But the other choices were tough ones to make, and once the die had been cast and the orders placed I immediately felt a tinge or two of regret.
The tapas started arriving immediately, which suited our ravenous selves very well indeed. The ceviche was, as promised, out of this world. It was flavoured in a yellow pepper sauce, with plenty of cilantro and mint and had a tangy but not caustic aftertaste. That, and the corn, justified their recommendations; the corn being an explosion of buttery and milky flavor accentuated with lime. Other standouts were the Kobe sliders (not even remotely Spanish, but delicious nonetheless) and the smoked duck drumettes. There were a couple of misses too, though, including the wild mushroom sauté – which did not have a precise flavor profile and could also have stood being cooked a little longer – and the sweetbreads, which had been left out for too long and had become slightly soggy once it got to us. We had also ordered the seafood paella, which came in a huge pan that took up most of the precious real estate on the table. It was cooked well even though it could have used more saffron. Yet there was an abundance of clams and mussels to go around, and so we could not complain.
All through dinner the conversation flowed like wine, and I felt genuinely happy to be amongst friends who I had not seen in a while. I did not know how everyone else felt, for meeting new people is a challenge that is both scary and exciting, much less dining with them. But there was no awkwardness, and we each found and fell into a comfortable groove as the night wore on.
The very best dining experiences are predicated on the façade that everything in the here and now – the front of the house, the back of the house, the house itself, décor, ambience, music – is working harmoniously towards the complete enjoyment of the diner. The best restaurants keep up this façade: waitstaff never appear hurried or harried, tables never look like they are uncleaned, and the food is done right, done well, and done with pride.
At the end of the night, I realised why the wait for tables was so long, while the wait for the food was almost non-existent. The way I figure it, the kitchen and waitstaff would have no problem handling more tables and more turns, but because the restaurant is such a great place to linger and the whole concept of tapas encourages this behaviour, actually seating diners is a problem. Despite the wait time, Toro did a good job of keeping up the façade that night, and that only added a welcome gloss to what was a perfectly enjoyable evening.
When the moon hits your eyes like a big pizza pie
La Stanza Diva Fiorentino
315 Main St
Woburn, MA 01801
781-935-3088
“Oh, but you must have some wine.” Her tone was one of grave concern, and the look on her face matched it perfectly. “I’ll see what I can find.”
The hostess at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino bustled away purposefully, and within minutes had returned with two magnum-sized bottles of red wine. “Which would you like?”
“Chianti.” I said, and she smiled as though I had given the right answer, as she filled my glass. Neither of my dining companions that night wanted any wine, and the hostess seemed disappointed. But she brightened almost immediately, and shot me a conspiratorial look. “I’ll just pour another one for you, then, just in case you want more.” It was as if she believed that you should never pour just one drink.
We were at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino, a home-style Italian restaurant nestled in the sleepy Boston suburb of Woburn, MA. The place was BYOB, and does not serve alcohol. I had been lucky that night: there had been a large group present as part of a wedding rehearsal that was winding down, and plenty of unfinished bottles of wine calling out to be drunk, as I was calling out to drink them.
La Stanza Diva is housed in an unassuming brick building, marked from the outside by only its green awning. But once you step inside, though, there is nothing in the restaurant that does not reach out to you. The interior of the restaurant is cavernous and poorly lit, but somehow comforting and welcoming. Home Goods decorations and all manner of baubles and knick-knacks adorn every corner, with no discernible theme – it is like the house of your middle school best friend with the crazy mother with the Zimbabwean horse sculpture thing at the door, where you used to hang out after school. It is kitschy, zany, cluttered, yet at the same time just plain fun.
The menu is made up of disparate photocopied handwritten sheets, stapled together and dog-eared at the corners, the dishes spelled out in a hand that is almost child-like. Yet it is so much fun thumbing through the many sheets – I doubt I have enjoyed myself as much looking through a menu anywhere else. There is all manner of foods available – the classic Italian staples, as well as more exotic game such as alligator and kangaroo and frogs’ legs. I am tempted to try these, but the whole reason for our going there was my craving for Italian, so I settle for a more conservative choice of veal scaloppini. We order calamari for the table to share, and settle back to take in the surroundings.
The restaurant seems a firm believer that one should never take oneself too seriously. In addition to the décor, it was also playing the soundtrack to the Godfather in the background. Whether or not that was done with a touch of irony, I shall never know. It was almost too much – without being so. Come to think of it, the few patrons that were scattered in pockets around the restaurant when we walked in had eyed us with a wary look of suspicion, almost Mafioso-like in its distrust. If there had been any way to be more conspicuous as out-of-towners, I did not know it.
But once the food arrived my edginess disappeared, and I began – as I am wont to do while eating – to become chattier. Perhaps it was the wine, but I like to think it was the enjoyment of simple, homestyle Italian done well. The calamari was lightly breaded and fried for just the right amount of time so that the squid was still juicy and springy when bit into. The marinara dipping sauce had milk in it, which balanced the acidity of the tomatoes perfectly and made for a sweet and tangy complement to the calamari. It was textbook Italian, and I was loving it.
I had balked a little earlier at the prices listed on the menu, but once the entrées arrived I understood completely. The portions were huge, almost enough for two meals, and were served with a side (!) of spaghetti and meatballs. This was Italian done in the good old days where everyone ate as if it were their last meal, and stayed at the table for hours on end, and nobody left the table anything but completely, utterly and absolutely stuffed. Indeed, there were at least two tables there that had looked as though they were finished with their meals when we sat down to eat, yet had not left when we got up to go.
My veal came done in a rich, brown sauce cooked down to a perfectly nappe consistency, with a hint of sherry. I felt it almost criminal to leave half of the food on the plate, but in my defence I also got further than any of the others at the table. The waitress smiled beatifically – at me, I like to think – when she came by at the end of our meal; I wondered if she was proud of our veritable showings in polishing off whatever had been put in front of us, or merely laughing inside at the pathetic futility of our efforts.
I am a fan of heavy dinners rather than heavy lunches, and I could feel my eyelids drooping in the car ride back to the hotel. I felt as if I had just intruded upon a well-hidden local neighbourhood secret, and yet been welcomed not as the stranger that I was, but as one of the famiglia – well-fed, well taken care of, and sent back on my way well-rested.
315 Main St
Woburn, MA 01801
781-935-3088
“Oh, but you must have some wine.” Her tone was one of grave concern, and the look on her face matched it perfectly. “I’ll see what I can find.”
The hostess at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino bustled away purposefully, and within minutes had returned with two magnum-sized bottles of red wine. “Which would you like?”
“Chianti.” I said, and she smiled as though I had given the right answer, as she filled my glass. Neither of my dining companions that night wanted any wine, and the hostess seemed disappointed. But she brightened almost immediately, and shot me a conspiratorial look. “I’ll just pour another one for you, then, just in case you want more.” It was as if she believed that you should never pour just one drink.
We were at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino, a home-style Italian restaurant nestled in the sleepy Boston suburb of Woburn, MA. The place was BYOB, and does not serve alcohol. I had been lucky that night: there had been a large group present as part of a wedding rehearsal that was winding down, and plenty of unfinished bottles of wine calling out to be drunk, as I was calling out to drink them.
La Stanza Diva is housed in an unassuming brick building, marked from the outside by only its green awning. But once you step inside, though, there is nothing in the restaurant that does not reach out to you. The interior of the restaurant is cavernous and poorly lit, but somehow comforting and welcoming. Home Goods decorations and all manner of baubles and knick-knacks adorn every corner, with no discernible theme – it is like the house of your middle school best friend with the crazy mother with the Zimbabwean horse sculpture thing at the door, where you used to hang out after school. It is kitschy, zany, cluttered, yet at the same time just plain fun.
The menu is made up of disparate photocopied handwritten sheets, stapled together and dog-eared at the corners, the dishes spelled out in a hand that is almost child-like. Yet it is so much fun thumbing through the many sheets – I doubt I have enjoyed myself as much looking through a menu anywhere else. There is all manner of foods available – the classic Italian staples, as well as more exotic game such as alligator and kangaroo and frogs’ legs. I am tempted to try these, but the whole reason for our going there was my craving for Italian, so I settle for a more conservative choice of veal scaloppini. We order calamari for the table to share, and settle back to take in the surroundings.
The restaurant seems a firm believer that one should never take oneself too seriously. In addition to the décor, it was also playing the soundtrack to the Godfather in the background. Whether or not that was done with a touch of irony, I shall never know. It was almost too much – without being so. Come to think of it, the few patrons that were scattered in pockets around the restaurant when we walked in had eyed us with a wary look of suspicion, almost Mafioso-like in its distrust. If there had been any way to be more conspicuous as out-of-towners, I did not know it.
But once the food arrived my edginess disappeared, and I began – as I am wont to do while eating – to become chattier. Perhaps it was the wine, but I like to think it was the enjoyment of simple, homestyle Italian done well. The calamari was lightly breaded and fried for just the right amount of time so that the squid was still juicy and springy when bit into. The marinara dipping sauce had milk in it, which balanced the acidity of the tomatoes perfectly and made for a sweet and tangy complement to the calamari. It was textbook Italian, and I was loving it.
I had balked a little earlier at the prices listed on the menu, but once the entrées arrived I understood completely. The portions were huge, almost enough for two meals, and were served with a side (!) of spaghetti and meatballs. This was Italian done in the good old days where everyone ate as if it were their last meal, and stayed at the table for hours on end, and nobody left the table anything but completely, utterly and absolutely stuffed. Indeed, there were at least two tables there that had looked as though they were finished with their meals when we sat down to eat, yet had not left when we got up to go.
My veal came done in a rich, brown sauce cooked down to a perfectly nappe consistency, with a hint of sherry. I felt it almost criminal to leave half of the food on the plate, but in my defence I also got further than any of the others at the table. The waitress smiled beatifically – at me, I like to think – when she came by at the end of our meal; I wondered if she was proud of our veritable showings in polishing off whatever had been put in front of us, or merely laughing inside at the pathetic futility of our efforts.
I am a fan of heavy dinners rather than heavy lunches, and I could feel my eyelids drooping in the car ride back to the hotel. I felt as if I had just intruded upon a well-hidden local neighbourhood secret, and yet been welcomed not as the stranger that I was, but as one of the famiglia – well-fed, well taken care of, and sent back on my way well-rested.
Monday, August 27, 2007
A tribute to the Stone Home Wine Bar
As I have written in these pages before – I am a fool for offal. Liver, especially, is one of my favourites. I can remember the look that my father gave me when, as a five year-old, I must have surprised him by displaying a hearty appetite for the pan-fried pork livers that he loved so dearly. My father was a very private man but even he could not disguise the happiness that showed so clearly on his face. In later years he mastered the art of acting all put out – at having to deal with competition at the dinner table for this otherwise unpopular delicacy – but I knew he was secretly pleased that he had been able to share his love for liver with at least one of his children.
What he did not do, though, was share his alleged love for cooking with any of his children at all. Growing up we heard stories – from our mother, our aunts and all manner of others who had had the fortune of tasting my father’s cooking – about how wonderful a chef our father was. There was the story of how, as a ten-year-old, my father averted a near disaster and saved a dinner party for twelve when his mother, my grandmother, was stranded while out running errands. It must have been embellished and retold many times over the years because by the time we heard the story it sounded like my father had, at the last minute, thrown together a multi-course meal with nothing more than a pair of scissors, some tongs, and a paper clip.
But he rarely, if ever, cooked for us – that was left to my mother or our housemaid who ran the kitchen with her own idiosyncratic efficiency. I personally never knew where anything ever was, yet she would be able to produce it out of a hidden cupboard within seconds. It was quite marvelous, really, what else she could whip up at a moment’s notice. She would make me full meals out of nothing at all when I would come home late from rugby practice, and I never thought to question how it was she seemed to have everything prepped at any given time, for whatever I was in the mood for. Years later as I started to cook myself, I wondered how she did it; and I realised just what a feat of organisation running a kitchen actually was.
Yet I digress. The other day I felt in the mood for some liver, so I decided to make a chicken liver mousse – something I had never done before. I had had one that Morgan made at the wine bar he worked at, so I knew that he knew how to do it; and he graciously told me how over the phone as I walked the aisles at Whole Foods. I bought a crusty wheat baguette to go with it, and went on my way.
It is strangely satisfying when you add a new recipe, or a technique, to your repertoire, and it was this satisfied feeling that came over me as I tasted the warm mousse when I was done making it. I had done good.
I was relieved when Mike and Marc both admitted that they liked liver too – for I had not considered the dietary preferences of my guests for the meal at all. The mousse turned out pretty well, if I may say so myself; I had added some port wine to Morgan’s recipe and it worked wonders. It is a crying shame that one can only eat so much liver at a go; especially when there is still a pasta appetiser and a main course of pork to go. I was a happy camper at the end of the meal, and we went off on our way to get ourselves more intoxicated.
Chicken Liver Mousse, or Mousse de foies de volailles
inspired by the Stone Home Wine Bar
1 pound chicken livers, washed and cleaned
1 + ½ stick butter
2 cloves garlic
1 large shallot
½ cup port wine
1 tbsp nutmeg
1 tbsp allspice
Salt and pepper
Marinate the livers in the port wine for 30 minutes. Finely dice the garlic and shallot and sauté them in the ½ stick of butter over medium heat. Add the livers and spices, reserving the port marinade and sauté till browned, about 3 minutes each side. Add the port and reduce until half the liquid is gone.
In a blender or food processor, blend the warm liver mixture and add the remaining butter in small pieces. According to Morgan, the butter that is added here should preferably be cold, because it emulsifies better. Once the livers and the butter combine, remove and place in a mold. You should line the mold with saran wrap so that you can pull the mousse out easily when serving. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Serves 6 as an appetiser.
What he did not do, though, was share his alleged love for cooking with any of his children at all. Growing up we heard stories – from our mother, our aunts and all manner of others who had had the fortune of tasting my father’s cooking – about how wonderful a chef our father was. There was the story of how, as a ten-year-old, my father averted a near disaster and saved a dinner party for twelve when his mother, my grandmother, was stranded while out running errands. It must have been embellished and retold many times over the years because by the time we heard the story it sounded like my father had, at the last minute, thrown together a multi-course meal with nothing more than a pair of scissors, some tongs, and a paper clip.
But he rarely, if ever, cooked for us – that was left to my mother or our housemaid who ran the kitchen with her own idiosyncratic efficiency. I personally never knew where anything ever was, yet she would be able to produce it out of a hidden cupboard within seconds. It was quite marvelous, really, what else she could whip up at a moment’s notice. She would make me full meals out of nothing at all when I would come home late from rugby practice, and I never thought to question how it was she seemed to have everything prepped at any given time, for whatever I was in the mood for. Years later as I started to cook myself, I wondered how she did it; and I realised just what a feat of organisation running a kitchen actually was.
Yet I digress. The other day I felt in the mood for some liver, so I decided to make a chicken liver mousse – something I had never done before. I had had one that Morgan made at the wine bar he worked at, so I knew that he knew how to do it; and he graciously told me how over the phone as I walked the aisles at Whole Foods. I bought a crusty wheat baguette to go with it, and went on my way.
It is strangely satisfying when you add a new recipe, or a technique, to your repertoire, and it was this satisfied feeling that came over me as I tasted the warm mousse when I was done making it. I had done good.
I was relieved when Mike and Marc both admitted that they liked liver too – for I had not considered the dietary preferences of my guests for the meal at all. The mousse turned out pretty well, if I may say so myself; I had added some port wine to Morgan’s recipe and it worked wonders. It is a crying shame that one can only eat so much liver at a go; especially when there is still a pasta appetiser and a main course of pork to go. I was a happy camper at the end of the meal, and we went off on our way to get ourselves more intoxicated.
Chicken Liver Mousse, or Mousse de foies de volailles
inspired by the Stone Home Wine Bar
1 pound chicken livers, washed and cleaned
1 + ½ stick butter
2 cloves garlic
1 large shallot
½ cup port wine
1 tbsp nutmeg
1 tbsp allspice
Salt and pepper
Marinate the livers in the port wine for 30 minutes. Finely dice the garlic and shallot and sauté them in the ½ stick of butter over medium heat. Add the livers and spices, reserving the port marinade and sauté till browned, about 3 minutes each side. Add the port and reduce until half the liquid is gone.
In a blender or food processor, blend the warm liver mixture and add the remaining butter in small pieces. According to Morgan, the butter that is added here should preferably be cold, because it emulsifies better. Once the livers and the butter combine, remove and place in a mold. You should line the mold with saran wrap so that you can pull the mousse out easily when serving. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Serves 6 as an appetiser.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Of pizza and place
Coppi's Organic
1414 U St
Washington, DC 20009
202-319-7773
To borrow a couple of turns of phrases from one of the greats, Coppi’s Organic is the kind of place that you mix your emotions up with. There are places in this world that it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about but there are some that will make you care. The room is long and narrow and not well-lit; as you walk in you can see the bar at the end of the room and the great wood-fired brick oven glowing insistently. It is high-ceilinged, and there are black and white pictures up on the walls of Italian Grand Prix cyclists from an era gone by. It is as if the owner opened a window into his passion for cycling, opened it for anyone – interested or not.
The last time I was there I was with Jeff and we sat in the middle of the room. I had been looking forward to the meal for a while before and this was a good a place to have it as any other. The murmur of conversation formed a wall around us as we sat and ate, and talked. For that reason alone I am convinced that Coppi’s is the place to go if you want to have a good meal and a good conversation. It is either due to great acoustics or a quirk of fate that no matter how close you are seated to other tables – and they do get pretty close – somehow, the only conversation you will hear at Coppi’s is your own.
The restaurant specialises in Ligurian cuisine, which Jeff informs me is superb. Liguria is a coastal strip in north-western Italy, famous for its focaccia and pesto among other specialties. Its influence is clear in Coppi’s menu – which is dominated by greens, mozzarella and sweet basil. Their antipasti is passable, and the home-made pasta good without being exceptional. These flavours and foods are all wonderful things, but what I really like the most about the place is its pizza.
The pizza at Coppi’s is made in a large-domed brick oven at the far end of the room, a large beast of an oven that defines the room. Wood-fired ovens are far superior to others for the cooking of most foods in general, and pizza in particular. This is not only because they can reach temperatures far higher than conventional ovens, but also because the food is evenly cooked by the wood-fired floor below as well as the heat radiated from the dome above. This ensures that pizza, in particular, can be browned to a crisp on the outside and yet remain light and fluffy on the inside.
But all the technology in the world will not save you if you do not care about the food, and that Coppi’s does. Its dedication to local and organic ingredients means that it can be a little expensive, but this is all completely forgotten once the pizza is served. The pastry had that taste of simplicity that most Italian cuisine has, with more than a strong hint of high quality olive oil. Yet the refusal to complicate the bread-making process ensured that it still predominantly had that old fashioned doughy goodness that I like in my bread.
I had had the lamb sausage pizza before, and I did it again, knowing it would not disappoint. When I called two days earlier I had asked if they were still serving it, knowing that the menu rotated with the seasons. The woman on the other end of the line laughed at the preposterousness of my question, and said, “Absolutely. That’s my favourite too, and I promise you, they’ll never take it off.”
It tasted like a thousand lambs had been killed to make that sausage, and their meats had been seasoned with the spices carried by a thousand merchant ships, across a thousand oceans. The garlic was strong but not overpowering, and there were hints of rosemary and thyme. Jeff chose the Genovese pesto pizza, wanting to see how Coppi’s would take local ingredients from the here and now, to recreate a tradition from many miles away, and many years ago. The pesto had been salted heavily and had a lovely crunchy texture. Both pizzas were, naturally, gone all too quickly.
With the turnover so characteristic of the restaurant industry it is sometimes difficult to create that familial atmosphere among the hostesses, waitresses, cooks and bartenders and all the other lovely people that help put the food on our table and make sure we have a smashing time. This did not seem like a problem at Coppi’s, the banter was obvious between everyone on the floor, and most of the people looked genuinely happy to be there. The one time I was there with Mira we had a delightful waitress – I think her name was Jamie – tall and dark-haired with an uncommon beauty; she spoke with a lilting, abrupt delivery and walked with the awkward grace of one who is still discovering the beauty of her own body. One is always discovering, it seems. She was charming beyond measure and I think I kind of fell for her a little. I asked about her this time I was there but she was not working that night, and somehow that made me fall for her a little more.
As we left we had that feeling of leaving a party that we knew would go on for long after our departure, and that saddened us a little. The winelist is decent and the other food is very, very good but not great. The dessert selection was also a little disappointing, but the pizza, with its well-chosen combinations of intense flavours, with its superior pastry baked to wood-oven perfection – the pizza alone, is reason enough to go back.
1414 U St
Washington, DC 20009
202-319-7773
To borrow a couple of turns of phrases from one of the greats, Coppi’s Organic is the kind of place that you mix your emotions up with. There are places in this world that it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about but there are some that will make you care. The room is long and narrow and not well-lit; as you walk in you can see the bar at the end of the room and the great wood-fired brick oven glowing insistently. It is high-ceilinged, and there are black and white pictures up on the walls of Italian Grand Prix cyclists from an era gone by. It is as if the owner opened a window into his passion for cycling, opened it for anyone – interested or not.
The last time I was there I was with Jeff and we sat in the middle of the room. I had been looking forward to the meal for a while before and this was a good a place to have it as any other. The murmur of conversation formed a wall around us as we sat and ate, and talked. For that reason alone I am convinced that Coppi’s is the place to go if you want to have a good meal and a good conversation. It is either due to great acoustics or a quirk of fate that no matter how close you are seated to other tables – and they do get pretty close – somehow, the only conversation you will hear at Coppi’s is your own.
The restaurant specialises in Ligurian cuisine, which Jeff informs me is superb. Liguria is a coastal strip in north-western Italy, famous for its focaccia and pesto among other specialties. Its influence is clear in Coppi’s menu – which is dominated by greens, mozzarella and sweet basil. Their antipasti is passable, and the home-made pasta good without being exceptional. These flavours and foods are all wonderful things, but what I really like the most about the place is its pizza.
The pizza at Coppi’s is made in a large-domed brick oven at the far end of the room, a large beast of an oven that defines the room. Wood-fired ovens are far superior to others for the cooking of most foods in general, and pizza in particular. This is not only because they can reach temperatures far higher than conventional ovens, but also because the food is evenly cooked by the wood-fired floor below as well as the heat radiated from the dome above. This ensures that pizza, in particular, can be browned to a crisp on the outside and yet remain light and fluffy on the inside.
But all the technology in the world will not save you if you do not care about the food, and that Coppi’s does. Its dedication to local and organic ingredients means that it can be a little expensive, but this is all completely forgotten once the pizza is served. The pastry had that taste of simplicity that most Italian cuisine has, with more than a strong hint of high quality olive oil. Yet the refusal to complicate the bread-making process ensured that it still predominantly had that old fashioned doughy goodness that I like in my bread.
I had had the lamb sausage pizza before, and I did it again, knowing it would not disappoint. When I called two days earlier I had asked if they were still serving it, knowing that the menu rotated with the seasons. The woman on the other end of the line laughed at the preposterousness of my question, and said, “Absolutely. That’s my favourite too, and I promise you, they’ll never take it off.”
It tasted like a thousand lambs had been killed to make that sausage, and their meats had been seasoned with the spices carried by a thousand merchant ships, across a thousand oceans. The garlic was strong but not overpowering, and there were hints of rosemary and thyme. Jeff chose the Genovese pesto pizza, wanting to see how Coppi’s would take local ingredients from the here and now, to recreate a tradition from many miles away, and many years ago. The pesto had been salted heavily and had a lovely crunchy texture. Both pizzas were, naturally, gone all too quickly.
With the turnover so characteristic of the restaurant industry it is sometimes difficult to create that familial atmosphere among the hostesses, waitresses, cooks and bartenders and all the other lovely people that help put the food on our table and make sure we have a smashing time. This did not seem like a problem at Coppi’s, the banter was obvious between everyone on the floor, and most of the people looked genuinely happy to be there. The one time I was there with Mira we had a delightful waitress – I think her name was Jamie – tall and dark-haired with an uncommon beauty; she spoke with a lilting, abrupt delivery and walked with the awkward grace of one who is still discovering the beauty of her own body. One is always discovering, it seems. She was charming beyond measure and I think I kind of fell for her a little. I asked about her this time I was there but she was not working that night, and somehow that made me fall for her a little more.
As we left we had that feeling of leaving a party that we knew would go on for long after our departure, and that saddened us a little. The winelist is decent and the other food is very, very good but not great. The dessert selection was also a little disappointing, but the pizza, with its well-chosen combinations of intense flavours, with its superior pastry baked to wood-oven perfection – the pizza alone, is reason enough to go back.
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