October 29, 2005
Anyone who loves food, fiction and clever dialogue will enjoy this smart little novel and it’s salty hero, Hugo Whittier. Aside from the unexpected references to items such as a Dodge Dart, garum and a mitzvah, this book is chock-full of witty food references and even recipes. Christensen’s diary-style story takes us into the life of man who wants to be left alone but isn’t, who finds himself transformed against his will, and in the end makes us cheer for him. References to food, food writers (especially M.F.K Fisher & Michel de Montaigne), recipes and lore are sprinkled throughout the book. Certainly, this must have been a fun book to write, as it is a fun book to read. It would be hard to create a character better suited to the food commentary found within these pages.
(My only critique is that Christensen attributes garum (stinky fish sauce) to the Romans, when it is in fact a western Phoenician product highly sought after by Greeks and Romans, and was an essential part of western Phoenician economy is Spain and North Africa. But that is just a pedantic note from a classics nerd.)
Tags:
epicure, garum, kate christensen, recipes, the epicures lament
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Posted on 10/29/2005
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October 29, 2005
So, I am a New Yorker and my husband is a Parisian. I look at Zagat and he, well, he doesn’t look at a guide really. He thinks we are all a little too fixated on who said what and on the peripheral matters, like who the architect of the restaurant was, or who eats there from time to time or how sexy the bartenders are. He is puzzled by the whole Zagat and Michelin debate because, from his perspective, the Michelin Guide is about gastronomie, in the French sense of the word, while the Zagat is a list of decent places with the phone number and address and some basic information. It is not about “gastronomie”. To him, there is no comparison to make because they are simply about different things.
The operative word here is the perception of what is considered “gastronomie”; a guide that is considered “gastronomique” will have a very specific audience and point of view, and a person who buys that guide will have a certain set of expectations.
There are restaurant guides to Paris that are not Michelin, like “Paris pas chère”, aimed at helping one to find a nice “resto” that isn’t high end but is good and priced right. There are also many web sites now, like oubouffer.com (also available in English), or restoaparis.com, which give a little insight into what Parisians are looking for when they go out to eat. The talk is almost always about the quality of the food and then the ambience and the price. But we often put more focus on the service staff than we do on the food. The service staff are there to perform and we are obliged to notice them, to make contact with them, to think of them as our equals. We never know when a Jennifer Garner will go from server to superstar.
At the end of the day, it’s apples and oranges. We look for what we look for, and in many ways service does come before food. It’s the service part that is the catch here, because Americans have a very different idea of the boundaries between patron and staff.
Case in point: One time, when I was in grad school, some new grad students from Belgium and Greece wanted to go out for a steak. We went to Outback, which at the time was a new-ish concept (in Cincinnati!) and also within our Grad Student budgets. The server came to our booth and sat down next to me, leaned on the table, and said, “Hi, I’m Chad. How are you?” Well, I was shocked, and asked him to please move away. But the newly arrived Grad students were completely flabbergasted and at first thought he was a friend of mine. This is an extreme case, but it points to something very elemental.
If we examine the restaurant commercials on television, we often see as much or more of the service staff than we do the food – not always true but often. We are pre-programmed to expect a welcoming face. When we don’t get one, or if we think that the staff is lazy, we often don’t return to the restaurant, or tell the manager, or write a letter, etc. I have, much to my husband’s horror, complained to a manager about a host who snapped her gum at me and said, “Can I help you with something?” And I retorted, “I am not shopping for shoes.” And I will never return to that restaurant because I remember her and her gum and that fact that the food wasn’t enough to make me want to return. There are so many other choices. Why should I put up with that kind of attitude?
Tags:
attitude, michelin, paris, zagat
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Posted on 10/29/2005
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October 27, 2005
For generations, New Yorkers have loved eating out. We will try just about anything. Bring it on. Let’s see what it is. Let us take a look at what’s in your kitchen.
New York changes the incoming, new cuisines, and in turn these cuisines change New York. We could start with the pizza, which has mythical origins both in Italy and here in New York. Both are so Italian and so New York – at the same time - that we don’t even notice it. And then there is the bagel, which has taken on a life of its own, and of course The Deli. Nowadays, it’s the Pad Thai that has been New York-ified, dressed up and taken out for dinner at fancy eateries all over town. New Yorkers love their restaurants and clamor for more. We talk an awful lot about them, sometimes as if they were people not places.
“Vong is really sexy,” a young woman says. “I’d like to look that good.”
When Po opened, a friend of mine said, “I’ve been waiting weeks to get inside and check her out.”
Passion: It drives so many of us to do so many things, sometimes wonderful and unforgettable, and other times just plain stupid. The same goes for restaurants.
When Cello first opened, it was on the fast-track to becoming one of the city’s most be-loved, romantic venues. Passion was all over that place. Too much passion. The break-up there was straight out of a novella. Tears, rumors, heartbreak – it was all played out in the dining room. But like scorned lovers after therapy, we have all moved on.
Rises: Sometimes, out of the blue, a venue pops up on the map, suddenly, with little fanfare or explanation and it is the next big thing, the talk of the town, the place of Great Expectations. A great review from the New York Times can solidify the dreams of a new venture, keep its tables booked for weeks on end, and generate even more press. A bad review, well…. (current rising stars: Le Cercle Rouge, the Queen’s Hideaway, the Fatty Crab)
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Falls: Sometimes, a restaurant just implodes for no reason anyone on the outside can detect. Often, there are financial concerns that overwhelm an owner. Sometimes, there is a titanic clash of egos between the principals. Other times, the spark of interest in something new just dies out as imitators pop up all over town. (Celebrity-inspired venues like NYLA can send a shiver down your spine.) And what do you do once the trend in your new idea is no longer trendy? (Current trends: Designer Eggs – Ova Delecta; Pad Thai; heirloom tomatoes; Ninjas?)
Fables: Once upon a time there was a cook, not just any old cook, but a brilliant cook. And his father said, “Look, son, there’s more to life than cookin’. You need to be the owner. Now, take the family car and sell it, and use that money to open up your own restaurant.” Well, we all know that the cook came back with a bag of magic beans. We can believe in the beanstalk or not, but the magic beans are always in the bag, waiting.
Tags:
pad thai, passion, pizza, trendy
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Posted on 10/27/2005
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October 26, 2005
Many heavy hitters (and not so heavy) have weighed in on the arrival of The Michelin Guide in Gotham City. Much fuss has been made about the fact that it a “French” product, and how the French are oh so lofty and snobbish about food and service. Oh, boo hoo hoo. So what? (Personally, I think many Parisians would love to see something like Zagat sticking out of handbags and rucksacks all over Paris.((NOTE: See commentaries below on how I am wrong here))) But let’s get down to the real issues at hand.
First, what is the purpose of the Michelin Guide? It exists solely to point out to those who can afford it the absolute best food available in a particular place. (And most of those who can afford to test the veracity of Michelin are just simply passing through.((NOTE: See comments below on how this NYC Guide is aimed at a different audience))) The guide sets standards and bases ratings on those standards. It’s like the SAT’s, the LSAT or the GRE’s. It weeds out. It sets the bar high. It knows its audience, or it should. ((NOTE: Like the American SAT's, the bar is lowered in order to make it all more democratic))
Next, let’s talk about context. The French, whether we over here like it or not, have the upper hand when it comes to culinary reputation. So what? The basic standard of acceptable in Paris is different than it is here; the expectations are different. In France, people in the countryside have wine cellars that shock and awe – and it’s not an anomaly. It’s just a different place with culinary traditions that reach back a thousand years. The French household has a very different relationship with its food than the American household, although in both places things are changing.
A big But: It would be like shooting oneself in the foot for the Guide Michelin to apply standards for traditional French cuisine and service to the eclectic and international fare that makes New York food life what it is. We need to be proud of that fact, not worried that we just can’t get the best foie gras here.
Service: The American style of service is like much else here – casual. The server approaches the table as if you were his/her friend. “Hello, my name is Babette. I’ll be your server tonight.” You are a first name basis with a person who – just for the night – will serve you. It is a tacit way of making everyone equal. It is an exchange of goods & services for money with the understanding that we are all equals. We tip based on how happy we are with the service. Elsewhere in the world, with very few exceptions, names are not exchanged. It is a different relationship. But Americans seems to like to know names, and to say, “Thanks, Babette,” at the end of the meal. It’s just who we are.
Stereotypes: In order for anyone to get anything out of the current back-and-forth and ink spillage, all stereotypes must be cast aside. Not all Frenchmen wear berets, smoke cigarettes and have enormous noses. Not all Americans are obese, right-wing fast food eaters. And yet we stick to stereotypes because it is easy. For years and years the French looked down their noses at American cookery. In turn, we looked down our noses at English cookery. We’ve all heard the jokes about the English and their mushy peas. But guess what? London is now a culinary hot spot, and so is Dublin. Affluent urban life generates haute cuisine that fits the city at hand, and now, with so many television shows and websites and magazines talking about food, and with the ease of importing and distributing food, there are many more possibilities than there were a generation ago, or even a decade ago.
Ado about nothing: The Michelin Guide will fill exactly the gap that it needs to fill: wealthy tourist, celebrities who don’t need to be on ET every night, political powerhouses, gourmands from around the world, and industry folks checking out the competition {{NOTE: I stick to my guns on this one, see below, even though the editors are hoping for a wider appeal}}. Guides like Zagat will continue to meet the needs of New Yorkers because ultimately it is our product and represents what we want, or think we want. Some call it democratic, but that is not the right word. It’s a Popular Guide, a liber vulgaris, a Who’s Who. It fits the us who we think we are, or at least what our shrinks think we should think we are.
Challenge: I challenge Zagat to a Paris version {{NOTE: See commentary below - there is a Zagat, but it bombed out}}. We look down our noses at the French as being cuckolds of Michelin. But has anyone attempted to Zagat them and set them free?
Let’s just all get in the train and shut. We’re gonna have a good time, goddammit!
Tags:
babette, basic standards, boo hoo, french, michelin, michelin guide new york, snobbish, zagat
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Posted on 10/26/2005
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October 23, 2005
We popped into the Queen’s Hideaway here in Greenpoint the other day and were reminded of why it is fun to go out to eat.
First, it’s about the food – pure and simple. Liza Queen is here to cook for you. She’s not here to strut around in front of movers and shakers, or to pose for a photo, or to line up interviews. She is in the kitchen cooking whatever it is she feels like cooking that day, and by God that’s all we can ask.
Savory, flavorful, daring and somehow poking fun at gourmands who like to chatter about the newest flavors and this and that fusion, the Queen’s hideaway looks at food and its preparation as part of the joy of life, and that is the one and most critical detail that is often missing from a buzzed-out restaurant. Rather than worry about the PR, Queen worries about the food, and this care and the joy that she puts into it carries over into all aspects of the way that she runs her business.
Let’s talk a minute about the joy of food. It’s been a long time since Irma Rombauer first published her cookery bible, simply titled “Joy of Cooking”, over seventy years, to be sure. It’s time to revisit the notion of joy and the role that it plays in food.
Joy seems like a simple thing, but it is not. Day to day, how joyful are we? How often do we feel like singing at work? How often do we look out the window and say, “I am so glad to be here,”? Not often enough. And when we go out to eat, how often are we planning to really find joy in sitting down to share a meal with someone?
The Queen’s Hideaway reminds us of the joy of breaking bread together, and in sharing truly well-prepared food with those we love.
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joy, liza queen
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Posted on 10/23/2005
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October 23, 2005
How to Stock the Pantry
Since my mother believed in the superiority of pre-packaged food (does Hamburger Helper send a chill down your spine?), she never taught any of us the fine art of keeping an efficient and useful pantry. We all had to learn on our own.
But what should one keep in a pantry? That depends on what you like to cook, and to eat. I like Mediterranean-based dishes that don't require hard-to-get ingredients. If you like to prepare meals in under 30 minutes, there are several approaches. Here are some tips that won’t kill your time, budget or wallet. You can find all of these items in your local grocery store at reasonable prices.
Pasta: Since there are many varieties, keep several on hand. Penne, orecchiette, spaghetti, and fusili are versatile and keep meals from becoming boring.
Sauce: Keep some crushed and whole tomatoes on hand – you can use them to form the foundation of tasty and non-time consuming meals.
Rice: Keep two varieties on hand, for example shorter grained rice for risotto and longer grain, like basmati for a quick pilaf.
Legumes: A bag of red lentils is a great thing to have in your larder. You can make them jump through many hoops, and they require no pre-soaking.
Flour, sugar, soda, seeds: Always have a bag of all purpose flour in the pantry, as well as granulated, brown and powdered sugar. Baking soda and baking flour are also handy. But think about keeping sesame and poppy seeds, as well as a variety of nuts in your supply area.
Tuna: Canned tuna (solid white packed in water) is a great staple to have. Buy on sale and use in a pinch.
Chicken or vegetable stock: Either canned or in the cubed form, stock can really soup up the flavor of many quick dishes.
Soup packets: Since I live in a Polish neighborhood I like to buy the mushroom soups (zupa pieczarkowa). These can be turned into a variety of things besides soups. Knorr and other brands offer a wide variety of mushroom, leek and other vegetable offerings.
Crackers: Saltines are good for a lot of things. Keep some on hand.
Oil: Olive oil, extra virgin, is a necessary and healthy item to have in the kitchen. Never let yourself run out. Please.
Of course, I could add the myriad foods tied to breakfast, like cereals, peanut butter, Nutella and more, but for now let's concentrate on lunch & dinner (dinner & supper if you are southern at heart).
Under 30 minutes suggestions:
Quick pilaf
In a frying pan, heat some olive oil. Add ground pepper, herbs that your like (dried thyme, oregano, sage, for example) and ground sea salt. Take about a dozen pieces of spaghetti and break into small pieces. Brown in the olive oil. Add about a cup or so of long grain rice. Make sure all the rice is coated in the olive oil. If you want to add sliced almonds or pistachios, now is the time. When the rice begins to brown, add a packet of soup and stir into the rice. It will be dry, but that’s okay. Once everything is equally distributed, add enough water to cook the rice as directed, give it a good stir, then cover and let it simmer. It’s fast, easy to clean up (one pan), savory and cost you less than two or three dollars. Easily serves two, more if you are having a salad and bread.
Quick corn & lentils
In a frying pan, heat some olive oil. Add ground peppers, herbs that you like (red chili flakes, cayenne) and ground sea salt. If you have two large ears of fresh corn on the cob, remove the corn from the cob and toss into the hot oil. If not, use frozen corn (stay away from the canned, if possible). Add finely diced onions if you are in the mood. Cover and simmer. When the corn is almost cooked, add a couple handfuls of red lentils and toss until they become dark in color. Then add a cube of chicken or vegetable stock (or the liquid version) and water. If you want to add chopped whole tomatoes, go for it. Cook until the lentils are ready. If you have fresh parsley or cilantro, chop some and add it just before serving, and if you have a lime, squeeze some over the dish. Add a dollop of sour cream if you dare, or marscapone (it’s not just for tiramisu). Again, this is a fast, easy to clean up meal that cost less than two or three dollars.
Use the tuna and tomato sauces to come up with some of your own pasta sauces – add olives and fresh herbs, and seasonal vegetables to make quick sauces that fit all types of pasta. (The orecchiette are robust little pasta disks that can take a heavier sauce containing pitted olives or nuts, while the penne goes well with just olive oil, salt, peppers and a few herbs.)
The tuna can also be mixed with the tomato sauce, spiced with chili flakes or other herbs to form a sort of paste, and then pressed into a shallow baking dish. Cover the mixture in toasted sesame seed and then finish off with grated parmesan cheese (or manchego, or your favorite grating cheese). Bake or broil until the cheese is the golden color you prefer. An excellent snack for late night.
Just a few ideas for these cool evenings, when time and money are short.
Tags:
cheese, pantry, pasta, quick meals, tuna
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Posted on 10/23/2005
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October 19, 2005
New to Mott Street, Epistrophy is a rebellious wine bar and hangout that attempts to breathe some new life into the staid café culture of Nolita/SoHo. It is a curious choice of name in a town where Spartan and monosyllabic brevity have been all the rage (Fresh, Sea, Mix, Town, Cru, Vong, Spice to name a few).
Notes on Epistrophy & Thelonious Monk: For jazz-heads, Monk stands out as a truly unique individual who always managed to do his own thing, no matter what. Placed among the stars post mortem, in his own day Monk was a conundrum, always a thorn in the side of the establishment – even if that establishment was the bebop crowd. Now, one of his finest compositions, Epistrophy, is considered a jazz standard.
We wandered into Epistrophy on a Monday night, hoping to check out this little slice of Sardinian café culture that intends to make headway in a neighborhood both saturated with and in desperate need of originality. (A paradox? No. Mott Street and the immediate environs do have much to offer – but there is also a lot of high-priced spam that leaves one feeling bitter after a pointless wallet-emptying.) What we found was an inviting room with an oversized bar, cozy with banquettes and remnants of an earlier architectural glory. We also found that we had wandered into a private party, a book launch for Peter Manseau’s collection of memoirs.
Notes on Peter Manseau: Peter and his family have been the subject of controversy for decades. His new book, Vows, is a collection of memoirs about how his family came into being. Again, a conundrum, a thorn, an improvisational life. Peter is young man, thoughtful and talented, and this venue was the perfect place for his party.
We could only gaze at the menu – the kitchen wasn’t serving that night. But the offerings listed, from cheese & fruits plate, cheese & cured meat plate, cheese & cheese plate to salads to crostini seemed decidedly countryside, as though there were a small family farm just outside the kitchen door. I do want to go back and try a few of the dishes that I could only read about. Rumor has it that a full dinner menu inspired by the owners’ Sardinian roots is on the way. Maybe we will see some savory “sabadas”. The wine list was a star-studded Italian affair, but we did not see any Sardinian vintages listed. Maybe we overlooked them – I will have to go back and find out. But the chianti we tried was lovely.
Notes on Sardinia: an island north of Sicily, mysterious since the Bronze Age. The ancient Sards, for whom the island is named, refuse to be fully defined by modern archaeologists. This culture flies in the face of modern archaeological modeling. There are more theories about this island than there are archaeological layers. Sardinia has always maintained a particular character, despite Phoenician, Carthaginian, Roman, French and Spanish attempts to change it.
One thing we noticed was that the aggregate amount of natural pulchritude at Epistrophy was enough to shock and awe. There are some seriously beautiful people who work, hang out or stop in here. It was impossible not to notice this detail. These were not glam gods stuffed into sausage-wrapper-like “fashion”, nor were they made up to be filmed in ultra-bright light. They were just regular folks who happen to have been blessed by Venus.
Notes on beauty: It is a fact that looking at beautiful things increases the flow of happy endorphins in the human brain. I am not talking about modifications (hair, make-up, plastic surgery and expensive clothes). I am talking about that certain kind of beauty that exists no matter what the day or time, no matter what piece of bling is attached to it, no matter how young or old or large or small. We all know what is when we see it, even if we lie to ourselves.
We are looking forward Epistrophy.
Tags:
beauty, cheese, italian wine, pulchritude
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Posted on 10/19/2005
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October 17, 2005
Once the doorway of heaven opened, showering the city with golden sunlight, Saturday became the perfect day to go out and taste Chinatown. After eight days of gloom and rain, we emerged to find a long-anticipated and beautiful autumn day, a perfection of urban weather capable of lighting up the sourest of faces, of softening the curmudgeon’s blow just long enough to enjoy a stroll down Mott Street.
High Noon on Saturday: We headed to Mott & Canal, trickier than normal due to “construction” on some of the Brooklyn lines. Just before 1 o’clock, the official start time of A Taste of Chinatown, we were handed a map with a list of the participating establishments, handily numbered and indicated by colorful dots.
We stopped first at Tai Hong Lao, rumored by the Cantonese crowd to be still good after all these years.
A woman about four and half feet tall gooses me from behind.
“How much is it here?” she asks.
“One dollar,” my friend replies.
“For how many?”
“One.”
She wrinkles her nose and huffs, but pushes her way in as the crowd surges forward.
Yes, Tai Hong Lao was one of the more expensive samplings on Mott Street, but it really was the best. At the end of the table where we were standing I spotted two fried dumplings to sample – creamy shrimp & pork in a very flaky rice flour wrapper and dry shrimp and scallion in a smooth wheat flour wrapper. Both were excellent – the oil had been just the right temperature so that the shrimp was tender and the wrappers were light and crispy. The crowd was enthusiastic, but our efforts to get to the other end were hampered by a man wielding a gigantic basket of hot dumplings, so we moved down Mott and took a right to Bo Ky (80 Bayard Street), where a trio of men were dishing out trios of fish balls.
“What is that?” a tourist asks.
“Just eat it,” her male companion says.
“Not till you tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know what it is. Just put some of that sauce on it and stick it in your face.”
Side Note: Fish balls are made from fish paste and starch, usually rice flour, but corn flour & potato are not uncommon. Regular old fish balls are made from white fish, but there are myriad balls to try.
Bo Ky, known also for its soups, offered a trio of boiled fish balls for $1, served in a Styrofoam cup: pork & shrimp, white fish and cuttlefish. The cuttlefish ball offered a little resistance when I came at it with the plastic fork, but I bested it and dipped it in some Hoisin sauce, the brown salty-sweet sauce based on soy, black bean paste and molasses. The cuttlefish ball was excellent, and the shrimp & pork version was right on target.
Meanwhile across the street and down the block, Chinese-style jerky was available for $1 per bag, which contained two samples of four kinds of jerky (two beef & two pork). I should have grabbed a few more bags. We meandered here and there, tasting this & that dumpling, then wrapped back around to Mott Street.
Both Tea & Tea and Green Tea Café were offering cool, refreshing tea samples. We queued up for the mango green tea at Green Tea Café, which was served cold and heavily scented with jasmine. The tea was almost vision-inducing – I was sure I could see a garden of flowers, young women in fine silken robes whispering to one another, a poet asleep under a tree. I wandered happily savoring the mango-jasmine-green tea infusion, blissful and with scallion pancake in hand, when all hell broke loose in front of Peking Duck. I was pulled out of my vision and into a moving mass of people who wanted a piece of Peking Duck. The line swelled to gigantic proportions, five big people wide and almost a block long.
“I need moon cakes,” my friend said.
“Me, too,” said another.
I opted out on the moon cakes. I prefer my eggs to be elsewhere.
After another round of dumplings, fried fish balls & an awesome rice flour crepe filled with creamy shrimp (at New Big Way), we meandered back to Canal Street, just as menacing, dark clouds began to blow over the city. The crisp wind freshened the streets and we left satisfied.
It was a great afternoon.
Tags:
chinatown, dumplings, fish balls, green tea, mott
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Posted on 10/17/2005
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October 14, 2005
I just want to say that if there really is a Murray, I would like to kiss him on the lips. Aside from the fact that Murray’s has been bringing us great cheeses from all points interesting, he always has a friendly and knowledgeable staff who make the cheese quest a most satisfying adventure.
My daily route takes me through Grand Central, where a Murray’s outpost greats me just after I buy that fresh Balthazar’s baguette at Corrado’s.
I need cheese. Today, I am looking for French feta and a cheese called Toussaint that I recently tried on an upstate foraging expedition.
“Good morning,” the young Cheese Master says with a smile. His spectacles sparkle under the golden display lights. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
What an awesome thing to hear at 7:15 in the morning. Is there anything? He has no idea of the anything I am capable of.
“I need cheese,” I say.
“We have some,” he replies. “Is there anything in particular you are looking for?”
“Yes,” I say as I scan the cheese landscape in the food TV. “I need half a pound of young Manchego, and there is a particular cheese from upstate that I tried recently, and I wonder if you happen to carry it.”
“Can you describe it?”
Here before me stands a professional, a man who knows his cheese. Panic.
“Well,” I mumble as a woman with a smart pair of shoes sidles up next to me. “It’s called Toussaint, but I can’t remember much else, except that it has a nice, nutty flavor and I want to buy some.”
“Ah,” he says, “Toussaint, from Sprout Creek Farms.”
“Yes!” I exclaim.
The well-attired woman next to me knits her eyebrows together and then leans in to hear more.
“Yes, we do carry that,” he says. “But we don’t have any right here right now.”
“Oh,” I say.
The woman looks up for an explanation. Two more people arrive, one with a cup of aromatic coffee, his tie flipped over his shoulder.
“It’s made upstate,” the Cheese Master explains, “by the nuns at the convent. That’s Sprout Creek Farms. They don’t make huge quantities, so it’s hard to keep in the regular stock. We sell out pretty fast.”
“I see,” I said. The crowd now forming nods its collective head. I move down the counter and gaze at the little pyramids, balls and disks of chevre and pepper-encrusted cheeses.
I am not disappointed – I am amazed that at this early hour I have found a person who knows his cheese, is happy to share and is smiling and friendly. He is still smiling, even though I am wasting precious time. I gather my half-pound of Manchego, my French feta, a slab of Pont L’Évêque and then ask about the high price of the Livarot as I pay the Cheese Master for his wares.
The woman behind me asks about the featured cheeses, and I leave her and the others to find their own cheese happiness. I give a silent and thankful “hurrah” to Murray, who continues to bring cheeses from around the world and right here at home to us, now in two locations and always with joy.
Tags:
cheese, grand central, mancheo, murray s
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Posted on 10/14/2005
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October 13, 2005
While most people might think of chili as one of those summertime picnic dishes, it is more than just a blazing bowl of bean-based fire power meant to liven-up a parking lot event. It is a complex dish with more incarnations than the President’s reasons for going to war. And, it is the perfect antidote to the current gloomy gray weather.
But what is chili, really? Myths abound. The origins are obscure. Some say that “chili bombs” (made with boiling hot habaneros) were used throughout the Americas to fight of the onslaught of Spanish invaders. Others say that stewed chili peppers were kept on the doorsteps of village houses to ward off evil spirits. Still others say that chili peppers (the jalapeño) were used to keep children in line. Certainly all of these possibilities have modern applications. But the truth is wrapped up in the leaves of the hoja santa and known only to the gods.
“If God hadn’t of wanted us to be eatin’ chili, he wouldn’t have made these dang peppers the only thing to grow out here in the middle of nothin’.” Ray Bob, chili enthusiast with a mobile chili kitchen.
Chili peppers, as far as nutrition goes, have a lot to offer. These fruits are loaded with vitamins and other goodies that are otherwise difficult to find in their native arid environments. The peppers themselves along with their leaves appear in hundred upon hundreds of recipes that have been in use for hundreds and hundreds of years. WE think Tobasco is something new. It is not.
The sweat-inducing, meat-based varieties of chili associated with the lesser known state of Texas have as their base a concoction of stewed peppers, onions and garlic. It is this concoction that is the foundation of any chili dish. Choose your peppers based on the “hotness” that you prefer. There are many pepper varieties to choose from, the most commonly available being the jalapeno, poblano, habanero and banana varieties. Poblanos are the least piquant and habaneros can be pain inducing. Caveat – do not use green bell peppers in a chili that you plan to make; it is anathema in all chili enthusiast circles.
Technically, any dish based on stewed peppers can be called chili. In Mexico, chili con carne consists of stewed peppers and beans (again, many choices) with beef. In Texas, chili should never have beans. In Cincinnati, the chili has no peppers but does have cinnamon and is served on noodles (the debate rages on about this appellation). In New Mexico, when one speaks of chili, he/she usually means the pepper and not the stew (they even have a Chili Pepper Institute!). But most people still think of chili as a bowl of meat and bean cooked in a spicy, tomato stew. Interestingly, chili (without meat) is based on ingredients native to the Americas. It is a splendid indigenous dish, and it is the object of great competitive events nationwide.
“We got hot, dang hot, and devastatin’.” Old Man Bill, serving up chili & barbecue at Wild Horse Mountain BBQ, somewhere south of Tulsa.
A good chili allows you to taste the peppers, the tomatoes and the other ingredients that you have chosen to plunk into the stew. If all you feel is pain, then it’s really not chili – it’s a torture device.
In this gloomy weather, a slow cooked stew of your favorite peppers, some onions, some tomatoes and perhaps a handful of corn and beans is a nice treat to sit down to after a soggy day of unpleasant commuting. With a side of cornbread and a bottle of beer, it can be just the thing you need. But do follow the chili with a nice green salad. It’s just healthy.
Tips for making chili: Never touch your eyes after handling a pepper. You will regret it. Never lean your face into the vapors of frying or steaming chili peppers. You will regret it. Be careful with the bean. You know what I mean.
Tags:
blazing, chili, evil spirits, habanero, jalapeno, peppers, porblano
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Posted on 10/13/2005
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October 06, 2005
Kitchen Secrets & Hyperbole & Megalomania
Let’s face it. Much of the food business in this and other urban meccas is all about “the buzz” and the hype – short for hyperbole, which simply means exaggeration. Those of us who love food – who can almost cry over a perfectly prepared steak au poivre – certainly do engage in a fair amount of hyperbole when we are describing the art that we love.
On the flip side is the Hartesküchenrealität – or, the harsh reality of life in the kitchen. There are the realities of running a business: vendors, inventory, food costs, labor costs, hiring staff, training, complying with the myriad laws that govern the industry, and many other things that cooks and sous chefs simply do no have to deal with. And on top of that, the executive chef must sell his concept, dream and style to the kitchen staff and the front of the house.
All chefs want their kitchen crews to believe in the food in the same way that they do. But human beings are notoriously fickle when it comes to buying into someone else’s dream. Many young culinary professionals are eager to work in the best kitchens – they are enthusiastic and maybe even star struck to be working side by side a chef whose culinary reputation is beyond pale. The idea is that you learn as much as you can from the Masters and then go out on your own. No one steps out of culinary school with the teeth to man the helm of a restaurant that represents millions of dollars in investments and with everything on the line. It takes years of experience – bottom line.
Once, I was talking to Matt Seeber, former executive chef at the now-closed Bid, about what it was like to step back and take the role of Chef de Cuisine under Michael White. He told me that was glad for the opportunity to work under Michael, who himself paid his apprenticeship dues in Italy.
“I still have a lot to learn,” Matt said. “There are so many ways to fuck up.”
He is right. There is more to running a kitchen than designing a dish and having your face plastered on the glossy hype handouts. The pressure can be immense. Everyone feels it, no matter how great a leader the executive chef is. Every night is like opening night. If there is a stereotype for Broadway actors buckling under the pressure to perform, there should also be one for kitchen staff. Kitchens can boil over with drama.
I have seen a grill cook pick up a cleaver, run from the kitchen and chase a diner who sent a grilled trout back to the kitchen. I have seen front of the house managers break down and weep because the kitchen was out of time – and the kitchen was out of time because all the dishwashers were poached by a new restaurant that offered them all a dollar an hour more. I have seen a cook jump over a steam table to attack another cook who had flirted with his wife. I have been screamed at by an executive chef because I asked him the wrong question at exactly the wrong time (and it was quite a well-seasoned rant in my face, I might add). I have fired a chef for dropping a food item on the floor and then serving it. None of this is shocking or even news to people in the profession.
As a Spanish chef once told me, “There is nothing so like a kitchen than another kitchen.”
But those of us who have and who do work in the industry know that no kitchen exists without its share of pressure, drama, tears and disappointment. A sous chef can feel that his/her carefully designed special is the ultimate creation, only to have the executive chef dismiss it. Feelings can get hurt. After all, this is an art form and it can get very personal.
It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that someone like Doug Psaltis can write a book venting about how everyone in the business is full of hot air. But he hasn’t been truthful about his own role in things. In his own way, he is attempting to grade those who have graded him, a very adolescent way to take on the hyperbole that obviously has been bothering him all those years.
He did admit to the New York Times that he, too, was guilty of showing anger in the kitchen, which he explained away as part of his Greek identity.
Those of us with Greek and other Mediterranean blood coursing through us give him the open-handed salute. Ethnicity is simply not an excuse for acting like an ass. Psaltis seems to be like a puff-pastry plumped with megalomania.
For those culinary professionals dedicated to their art and constantly striving to perfect it, we salute you. We know that life in the kitchen is not like everyone sees on the Food Network. We know that it is hot, demanding work and that every night is like opening night.
My brother-in-law apprenticed with some of France’s most famous – and demanding – chefs, and worked hard to earn the respect of Passard, who allowed him to run the kitchen at Arpege. But ask him and he will tell you that in order to get there he had to be humbled more than once – and he will be humbled again. That is part of the territory.
Like the hyperbole that Psaltis seems to be reacting to (and with more than a little spite and revenge), the buzz surrounding his book will die down and the text will have to rest on its own merits. Let’s see if it garners even half the respect that French Laundry and the many professionals he “exposes” have.
Tags:
drama, hype, hyperbole, passard
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Posted on 10/6/2005
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October 05, 2005
A series of strange events led to our hosting two displaced artists (call them what you will - evacuees, refugees, adventurees) who had lost everything and more due to the big “K” word.
He called to introduce himself.
“This is Adam, the guitar player from New Orleans,” he said.
“Where are you now?” I asked. He and his new bride had made their way up the Mississippi, stopping at St. Louis. We’d never met, but he had found some messages that we had posted on Craigslist.
“Union Square,” he replied.
So many people land at Union Square. It’s still a particular gathering point, despite the City’s attempt to turn it into the kind of gentrified park with dogs and strollers that one sees on the Upper West Side. For all the revetement, Union Square remains raw.
He told me that they were crashing on someone’s couch that night.(I try to picture losing everything but can’t. I cannot imagine ending up on a stranger’s couch hundreds of miles away from what was once the place I called home.)
He sounded decidedly upbeat.
“Everyone has been so great,” he said. “And Diane is working tonight – she got a waiting gig.”
“K” has brought out the empathy in all of us.
Adam hooked up with us at Fada later that night. I needed a glass of Cote de Rhone and my musician-husband knew the band scheduled to play that night – a quartet playing urbanized Dixieland, complete with a washboard and trombone.
Adam was hungry but he didn’t want to say anything. He’d been playing his guitar at the Bedford Avenue L stop, making just about minimum wage.
“I’m buying,” I said.
He ordered a tall glass of Brooklyn lager, and turned to watch the band. A smile spread across his face.
Musicians get into a zone of their own when they are playing, and when they are enjoying someone else’s tunes.
I ordered a cheese and fruit plate, which comes with a basket of country bread and a ramekin filled with a yummy black olive paste. A nearby mother-daughter team flirted with the handsome bartender while an elegant couple kissed as they fed each other tiny spoonfuls of crème brulee. My husband waved to the bass player, who smiled and nodded her head.
“So you know the band?” Adam asked my husband.
“Some of them,” he replied. “I’ve played with the trombone player. She’s really good.”
“This is awesome,” Adam said. “What a great venue.”
I knew that the two of them were on the verge on talking money – musicians have a way of reaching that topic without poking around too much in the numbers.
“It’s pass the hat here,” my husband said.
Adam spotted the tip jar, which was sitting on a bar stool in front of the guitar player, as if it, too, were part of the band.
“I see,” he said.
The cheese plate arrived and another beer and another glass of cote de rhone – and more music and more clapping, and then suddenly my husband said, “If you don’t have a place for the weekend, give us a call. You can stay with us.”
“We might have to take you up o that offer,” Adam said.
We listened to the music and watched the slow dance of servers and busboys as they moved through the dining room, happy when a second basket of bread arrived.
I was on the verge of asking Adam if he wanted something else to eat when he pulled some hard-earned singles out of his pocket and crossed the dining room floor, dropping them into the tip jar.
One by one, everyone at the bar followed suit.
It’s time we all supported those musicians dedicated to playing live music in venues that make New York what it is. Otherwise, everything around us will turn into nothing more than another shopping mall with focus-group inspired music, movies, clothing and food.
I'm glad NOLA is in the house.
Tags:
cheese, cote de rhone, handsome bartender, music, nola, trombone
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Posted on 10/5/2005
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October 04, 2005
When you don't have your iPod plugged into your head (okay, my battery died and...), you can take advantage of the opportunity to eavesdrop on your fellow strap-hangers. Most of the time you are privy only to pointless gossip, a mortar attack of the “F” bomb, or the periodic discussion of string theory and the pancake-like structure of the 26 (or 10) dimensions that make up the fabric of the universe.
“Pancakes. I love pancake! A short stack with real, lightly salted butter and a kiss of authentic maple syrup – that is the fabric of our multi-dimensional universe.”
Dimensions should be kept to ten – twenty-six is a number hard to wield, and no fun to type. Like a good menu, less is usually more. Menus with too many things to choose from can cause diner-tension. But then, tension is a fundamental parameter of supersymmetry, which we need in order to keep it all pulled together. Sometimes, I feel supersymmetric, powerful, multi-dimensional, even photonic, but at the same time irritated by the eon-long wait between entrée and appetizer, or between L trains on a Friday night. Twenty-six dimensions, twenty-six minutes between trains and hundreds of comments to listen to.
Two young women with matching outfits and pony tails are discussing the 24 hour eatery that they are headed to. “It’s not like a diner, you know, but, it’s like, open and that’s like, okay with me, because, like, right now, I am so like, hungry. You know what I mean? And there’s like, you know, a lot of stuff there. It’s not like, you know, you can’t find something that you like, like.”
Diner menus always have about three-hundred items listed. I’d like to try ordering them all, one or two at a time. But I always end up ordering the same thing – feta cheeseburger deluxe with a side of mustard. I never get to the Salisbury steak or the tuna melt or the health salad or the pot roast or the open-faced meat-loaf sandwich. I am just not as supersymmetric as I would like to believe. I have been compactified and am stuck in my own loop. Time to regroup.
The other young women nods her head knowingly. “I so want pancakes, you know what I mean?”
The reason I don’t order the pancakes is that they always disappoint me. The batter isn’t right – there is too much flour; the griddle is too hot – the outside of the pancakes virtually burns while the inside reamins underdone; the butter is margarine; the syrup has no molecular relationship whatsoever to a maple tree. Pancakes can be delectable, but more often than not they are cardboard-like discs slathered in processed & fake-flavored condiments that will not break down easily in the landfill. Ick.
“I like, can’t eat pancakes anymore,” the mostly-talks one says. “They like, remind me of like one night when I was like totally bombed, and I was like, with my friends from school, and we were like, drinking some kind of like vodka or something, and then like, we decided that we would like….”
Meanwhile to my right, “String theory hasn’t been verified. Show me a version of string theory that can make a prediction other theories haven’t already made and I'll buy the pancakes. Anyway, it's still in larval stage, so we can’t really argue that ….”
Of all the multi-dimensions I had to end up in…ooh! It’s my stop!
Tags:
ipod, pancakes, string theory
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Posted on 10/4/2005
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