What are you, like, domestic or something?

Paris - Duluc Detective

2011-02-08T16:39:00.000-08:00

Words fail me.

Need I say more?

Ok. Just this closeup of my dream doorplate.

Paris - Review of Illios Restaurant in the 18th

2011-02-08T15:57:00.000-08:00

One cold day in Paris, having trekked across town to a well-known bakery in the 19th (without checking my Excel spreadsheet, which would have told me that the bakery in question was not open on Tuesdays), I found myself at loose ends. So I hopped on a random bus. It took me up and around through the 18th and 19th arrondissements. It wasn't a particularly scenic tour, but it was, as always, fun to get a random glimpse of a part of town you'd otherwise have no reason to visit. (It was the 60 bus, in case you're interested.)

So, there I was, wandering around cold and starving and trying to find a place that wasn't Italian. I spotted Illios, but it looked a little too swanky for me. How wrong I was. It was tiny and charming and staffed by a waitress who kept running around, throwing up her hands and murmuring "Catastrophe! Catastrophe!" but as far as I'm concerned, there was no catastrophe at all.

I had foie gras as a starter, because it's almost always a good idea to do that, and followed it up with a lovely garlic roasted chicken leg, with a solid side of potatoes and a nice light salad.

Given the look of the other restaurants around, I chose wisely. Should you be down the hill on the wrong side of Sacré Coeur, I highly recommend stopping in.

Oh, and the place was packed, including one elegant sophisticated lady of a certain age, whose gorgeous face, perfect make-up and impassive gaze have since served as my inspiration for how to eat--no scratch that--dine solo.

Illios Restaurant (61 Rue Ramey, 75018 Paris. Métro: Jules Joffin. Tel.:01 42 23 67 60)

Paris - Review of Le Petit Curieux in the 3rd

2011-01-27T10:52:00.000-08:00

So even though I'm the kind of girl who whips up an extensive Excel spreadsheet detailing all of the restaurants she'd like to check out (even for spur-of-the-moment type vacations like this one), I'm also the kind of girl who forgets to print out said spreadsheet, and also the kind of girl who has a horror of advance planning.

All this to say that if you were to plot a Venn diagram of my actual restaurant experiences versus my spreadsheet, there wouldn't be a whole lot of overlap.

But that's good. Because what it also means is that I am often pleasantly surprised by under-the-radar spots that I would never have otherwise happened across.

Like Le Petit Curieux (16, rue des Filles du Calvaire, 75003 Paris. Métro: Filles du Calvaire. Tel.: 01 42 74 65 79)

It's a tiny space (and extremely cute, for what it's worth) and was bustling when I arrived. I managed to grab a table for one, no problem, and decided to go for the full three-course lunch "formule" for a terrific €19. I started with the smoked herring and sardine "maison" which were good, but not the most exciting thing in the world. Many other diners were swooning over what I later found out was "oeufs cocotte aux truffes" (something like "soft-baked eggs with truffles, but if it's all the same with you, I'll stick to the French as being infinitely more adorable).

For my main, I had a wonderful dish of sweetbreads in a buttery, garlicky, parsley sauce. With a side of buttery mashed potatoes. Oh, and there was a glass or two of wine in there too, don't worry.

For dessert, I had "faisselle," which is a kind of fresh cheese that tastes like a tangy yogurt, topped with salted caramel (a specialty of Brittany, it would seem).

It was the perfect place to happen upon while stumbling around desperately looking for lunch. (Ahem. The place I was going to go to was closed - what did I say about that spreadsheet? Oh right. That I forgot to print it. Yes, it contains a column for opening hours.)

Paris - Act IV

2011-01-26T10:34:00.000-08:00

Somehow, I forgot to mention my awesome introduction to Paris... Wandering around the Gare du Nord, trying to figure out how to transfer to Line 2 (which turns out to be longer and more complicated than you might think), a man asked me if I needed help. He proceeded to rush me through the station (in, I might add, what appeared to be the wrong direction) at breakneck speed (especially considering that I was dragging all my luggage behind me).

We arrived at what I know to be exit gates, and he gestured that we needed to go through, but I didn't have my ticket handy (you need it to exit), so he just had me squeeze through behind him. He brought me to the ticket vending machine, and selected the booklet of 10 tickets.

Now, I'm very much the kind of girl who does her homework, so I knew there was no way I was going to buy a booklet. I needed a single ticket for that day, was going to spend the next day recovering from jet lag and getting to know my own neighbourhood. I then intended to buy a Navigo pass, which is good for unlimited travel for a week (Mon-Sun). I explained this to him, and he tried to pull off a line about how the Navigo pass doesn't exist anymore. I had to call bullshit on that one, since I (well-informed traveller that I am) knew that a different card was recently eliminated, that the Navigo was introduced to replace it, and that it was very much available to me.

Warning flags had been going off the entire time, and I certainly wasn't going to be bullied by some random guy into buying something I didn't want. After a few more attempts to convince me, he must have seen that he wasn't getting anywhere. I blinked and he was gone, disappeared back through the entry gate.

Why do I tell you this? Pride. Terrible, awful, sinful pride. This is the first time I can think of that someone has tried to swindle me, and I wasn't taken in for a minute. You never know things will go until it actually happens, but now it has, and I totally had him pegged.

I guess his plan was either to grab the tickets, or snatch my cash or card, but it doesn't seem like a particularly good scam to me. Not that lucrative, really.

Who knows? Maybe he wasn't a very good grifter, but I like to think that I'm just a savvy traveller.

Paris - Act III

2011-01-25T12:40:00.000-08:00

To anyone considering dining solo in Paris:

Do it. No one will bat an eye. You will not be seated at the bar, because, well, you don't eat dinner at the bar. You may get a lousy table, but so far I have not. Your waiter or waitress may be lovely (or may be standoffish, on occasion), but they will not treat you any differently than they are treating any of the people at the two-tops or three-tops. If they are being charming to the other tables, they will be charming to you. Most are. Extremely. But the opposite does apply (if they're a bit of a jerk, they will at least be consistent) (this has only happened to me once).

I know it sometimes feel like you've got a huge L tattooed on your forehead when you walk into a restaurant for dinner alone, but do. Treat yourself. Don't be shy. Your wait person will take good care of you.

(NB: I have been eating almost exclusively at adorable neighbourhood bistrots, because that's the kind of food I'm interested in, but I'm sure at the multiple-Michelin-starred restaurants they take even better care of you.)

Paris - Act II

2011-01-25T12:19:00.000-08:00

(Translation observations -- potentially boring)

On the single-line subway maps that show you where you're at and suggest where you might be going (the entire system doesn't appear in the metro cars, only in the stations), the following message appears (followed by my very literal translation) if your line connects with Strasbourg--St-Denis:

"La correspondance n'est pas assurée." (Connections are not guaranteed.)

But what it actually means is that the station is closed. Not only are you not guaranteed to be able to transfer, but you are actually guaranteed to NOT be able to transfer. But, you know. It's French.

Equally fascinating is the warning message to keep you hands off the door. In French (and in the extremely faithful Spanish, German and Italian translations), the warning reads:

"Don't put your hands on the doors. You might get pinched." (My translation.)

This warning is illustrated by a rabbit getting his fingers trapped between the closing doors. The English, however reads:

"Beware of trapping your hands in the doors."

Only the Italian takes an exclamation mark.

Paris - Act I

2011-01-25T11:22:00.000-08:00

First baguette sighting (confirmation that you have indeed arrived in Paris):
A young reckless driver making a screeching left turn across oncoming traffic, laughing with his buddy and biting off a huge hunk of the baguette braced between his knees.

First dead-on Parisian moment (in haiku form):
En sortant du Passage Plantain
In the bright sunlight
She leans out of the window
In a pink housecoat

Then, suddenly, it turned cold. I am not taking pictures. I'm somehow ok with that.

Did I say yet that guanciale makes everything better?

2010-08-18T17:23:00.001-07:00

Damn. I've been drowning in green beans this past two months or more. When gardens produce, they tend to produce with a vengeance. So since I'm going to by busy and eating out all weekend, I decided to whip up the 3-4 lbs of green beans I had kicking around in the fridge. (I live alone. That's a lot of beans.)

Well, while in spring a young man's fancy may lightly turn to thoughts of love, in late summer a young girl's fancy is wont to turn to that last remaining chunk of pork jowl. And lordy, am I glad it did.

So I chopped up some small bits and threw 'em in a pan to cook. Thought to add some garlic. Added the beans (in batches, since they were of varying varietals and ages). Lidded that sucker and let 'er braise a while.

I didn't actually eat them hot, since I had already eaten, but just threw them in the fridge for tonight. And lo and behold, what do I find? Sweet jesus. The most delicious accident I've ever made. Some of the beans are caramalized in the pork fat. The extra-porky guanciale has permeated everything. The garlic may not have been necessary, but what the heck. I served them cold, with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkling of parm, and a pinch of salt.

Divine. This tastes like restaurant food. Good restaurant food.

Instructions (for a reasonable amount of beans)

1 lb green beans, any variety, trimmed
1 slice guanciale, cubed (or any similarly delicious pork product, though I highly recommend this one, if you can get your hands on it)
1 clove garlic, sliced
salt, to taste
oil, for pan
(parmesan cheese, oil, for serving)

Throw your guanciale in the pan over lowish (low to medium) heat. Stir it occasionally while you're trimming the beans and chopping the garlic.

When the guanciale is as cooked as you like it (think your preferred bacon style), add the garlic. Let 'er cook for a minute, just to begin to colour, and add the beans. (If your beans are all similar, which they will probably be if you aren't harvesting them from my garden, add them all at once. If you are crazy, add them in stages, according to how long you guesstimate they'll take to cook. That said, you're going to braise the hell out of them, so maybe it doesn't matter. In fact, I'm sure it doesn't.)

Add the beans all at once. Mine had water clinging to them, but if yours don't, add a splash of water. Just a splash. Really. Because...

Now you're going to lid the pot and turn the heat down if you need to. Not to nothing, but to it's-ok-to-go-text-your-friend-for-a-while-and-forget-about-the-beans-without-burning-anything temperature.

Mine went for maybe an hour. They're melting and luscious. I highly recommend it.

Eat hot if you want to. I'm sure they're great. But I put them in the fridge for a day, then pulled some out and drizzled oil, parm and cheese on top, and could not believe how amazing they were.

Best part? I've got leftovers.

Pork jowl. Cured.

2010-03-13T16:08:00.000-08:00

In the battle of East vs. West, West has won this round.

I stopped in my favourite West-end butcher a few weeks ago on my way to a friend's house for a dinner date, and noticed a mysterious pork product hanging from the wall. "What's that," I asked, "not prosciutto." (They were much smaller than haunches.) "No," smiled the butcher, "Guanciale."

Now, I had never actually had guanciale before, but it's been haunting me like a ghost. I keep seeing it referenced in cookbooks as "difficult to find outside of Italy." The cookbooks sigh with pity, look superior, and explain that we mere mortals can substitute bacon or pancetta.

If these are the substitutes, you know guanciale's a winner.

The guanciale (pork jowls, by the way) weren't ready yet. Wouldn't be for a week. Luckily, I've got a standing dinner date in the West end, so I was there the following Monday. Picking up my guanciale. Paying eight bucks for a 2-lb jowl. Crazy.

So that was two weeks ago, and I've only just now gotten around to using my precious pork product. The verdict? Out of this world. Here's what I did (faking my way through a Bucatini all'Amatriciana).

Around 1/3 lb guanciale (random guess - go with a 1/4, go with a 1/2, no worries) cut into little squares or sliced, as you wish.
1 fat onion, sliced thinly (I must insist).
Around 1/2 can tomatoes (for the record, I picked these up on sale at No Frills a hundred years ago, and they're a good choice, with a thick puree).
Dried chillies (I used two, broken into halves).
Around 1/4 cup of cheese - apparently it should be Pecorino Romano, which I usually have (but didn't). All I had on hand was Parmigiano Reggiano. Personally, I think there's no shame in that.
1/3 a package of pasta. Don't feel compelled to use bucatini. I used my obsession, Mafalda corta by Garofolo (highly recommended) (incredibly highly recommended).

Throw your chopped or sliced guanciale into a heavy-bottomed pot (I used a cast-iron dutch oven) over medium or even medium-low heat. Render the fat. Just let 'er go. When the guanciale has released enough delicious fat, throw in the onions. Oh, but if you were frying slices, rather than squares (aka "lardons"), pull them out to slice them. Or not. It would probably be delicious with long strips of guanciale, but I enjoyed mine with little bites dispersed through the sauce. So you want to cook the onions for a good long time, to get them nice and sweet. So cook them for a while, throw in your dried chilli(es) and meanwhile, back on the ranch, heat up your pasta water.

Throw in your tomatoes (and the guanciale, if you had to pull it) with the onions and crank the heat up a little to simmer. This should go on for maybe ten or fifteen. Which is perfect, since the pasta will be cooking at the same time. Then throw in some cheese. Take your sauce off the heat. Taste it. It will be more delicious than you anticipated. Now the pasta is ready. Drain it and toss it in the sauce. Sit down, pour yourself a glass of wine, and enjoy.

The old no-knead

2010-02-20T15:15:00.000-08:00

Wow.

Is that bread shot dramatic, or what?

I think I must've been on speed or something today. This morning? Just whipped up some sweet potato-cranberry muffins. Like it weren't no thing. (I always plan to throw in a spare sweet potato when I'm baking other things, and never do. This week I did.)

But as if that weren't enough, I threw together a good-but-n0t-great soup of collards, kale, potatoes and (still cooking my way through my freezer) cannellini beans.

And to top it all off, I threw my most recent attempt at the infamous no-knead bread in the oven. I started it last night while 3 or 4 quarts of beef stock were simmering away merrily. (So come to think of it, the erratic behaviour actually started last night.)

And the bread? Gorgeous. Best rise I've managed. Just look at it! Doesn't it look like it could take on the world?

Marcella Hazen, I love you.

2010-02-15T17:37:00.000-08:00

When you make Ms. Hazen's minestrone recipe for the first time, just follow it.

By follow it, I mean make the beef stock from scratch (though don't worry if it's just from bones - more than that seems excessive). I mean cook the cannellini beans yourself. Because really? Beyond that? You're not actually doing a whole hell of a lot.

So cook the beans and beef stock one day. After work. Throw them on the stove. It's no big deal - just do it when you're going to be hanging around.

If you're home the next day, cook the soup then. If not, throw the beans and stock in the freezer until you're ready to make her amazing soup (that's what I did today - I'm cooking my way through my freezer).

The rest of it takes not a whole hell of a lot of effort.

First you fry up an onion in butter and olive oil (less than she says - or hell - as much as she says!). Then add chopped up carrot. Then add chopped up celery. Proceed for tomatoes, zucchini, potatoes, whatever. No zucc? Add squash. No potatoes? Add sweet potatoes. Or omit. It's up to you! Just don't try and go too fast and (this is a mental note I need to apply every single time) don't be afraid to add SALT!!!

Once you've gone that far, add your "green."I used Savoy cabbage, as per the recipe, but you could use spinach or rapini or escarole or whatever you want!

Then simmer. For a really long time (2.5 hours - I'm serious!).

Then add your beans. Simmer for another half hour.

Add some grated parm. (If you had a rind kicking around, you should have thrown that in at the beginning, but if you didn't, it's ok.)

Marcella doesn't add pepper, but I do. And I have some particularly fresh peppercorns right now, and they were an amazing addition to this soup (ground, of course).

Damn. I've made this soup (with minor variations) about half a dozen times, and it NEVER fails to impress. I had a huge dinner, and have five more totally reasonable sized portions left. Sweet.

Reflections on NOLA

2010-02-15T17:29:00.001-08:00

If you're considering a visit - stop considering and book your ticket. That crazy city will give you what you're looking for, or if not what you're looking for, at least what you're least expecting.

Case in point? I don't pick people up. I just don't. But I picked up a random, geeky, very sweet computer type while I was there. (I thought I needed an escort to my shot and a haircut - shot and a haircut that never materialized, for the record.) But the very fact of my picking him up, and the very fact of him being picked up (I'm quite sure it was an anomaly), made both of our trips a little more interesting. And that happens in New Orleans, like it or not. And it doesn't much happen elsewhere. By that I don't mean picking up - of course that happens. I mean that stepping out of your identity - out of your comfort zone - out of your element (thank you, Daren!) in a way that just feels right.

I personally had a 10 out of 10 in New Orleans, and my visit seemed to have been customized for me. But you know what? If I had made one different choice at the beginning of my trip, I think I would be saying the exact same thing based on a completely different set of experiences. And what does that tell you?

It tells you that New Orleans is a hell of a town.

Send my love.

Goodbye NOLA

2010-02-15T17:18:00.000-08:00

Despite a terribly inauspicious beginning, I fell as hard for this town as anyone could.

Despite considering cutting short my vacation after the first frigid weekend, by the time my visit drew to a close, I was already price-checking direct flights from Detroit.

Despite a marked preference for getting the whole getting-out-of-town thing over with as quickly as possible, I wasn't too dejected when I found out my flight was delayed.

Especially not when the Zulus showed up. At the airport. With full costumes. And brass.

I threw airport decorum to the wind and created my own second line. To hell with it. Why wouldn't I? It was like United had conspired with or against me to make my last day in NOLA something special.

The Zulus were there to welcome their Queen, who flew in from Texas for the carnival ball. I second lined by myself down to the arrivals gate and back up to the escalator they took up to their party. The guards, when asked when the party would end, replied, "When the champagne runs out, I guess."

So I decided not to go through security, but to wait outside for the Zulus, should they leave before my flight.

They did.

I shimmied out to their limos in my second line of one, declined a few generous half-invitations, smiled at the sheer craziness of what New Orleans is, and headed to security.

Day 22 in NOLA

2010-01-30T15:12:00.000-08:00

Wow. Day 22 in NOLA was a whole lot of fun. Yes, I had the opportunity to participate in a "fake" second line (it was a recreation of the ReNew Orleans post-Katrina parade). Now, ordinarily a fake second line is, by its very nature, inferior to a real second line (is anything once removed from itself as good as the thing itself?), but I ran into my buddy Daren (he of the crayfish from two "real" second lines ago). It was nice having a partner in crime for the parade, and it was extra nice since he got me into the Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club afterward.

Now, I don't know that I necessarily needed an invite, but as a non-crasher I never would have intruded. I wouldn't have availed myself of the free food out back, and I certainly wouldn't have gone in for a drink. I wouldn't have shaken the Zulu mayor's hand. I just wouldn't have. But Daren, poking gentle fun, made me do it (his brother's a member - I think that's what convinced me: it was so run-of-the-mill for him). And I did. And it was great. I was totally out of my element, but I was loving every minute of it.

The best part? Bringing Daren out of his element.

We agreed to meet up later on to go to the inaugural Mardi Gras parade (the Crewe du Vieux). Daren was hanging out at his hangout - Razzoo. Not a place I ever need to return to. But that's cool. I had mapped out the KdV's route, and we headed out to where they'd be. But as we kept getting further from the regular Bourbon St. mayhem, my buddy kept getting more uncomfortable. Finally he said, "I'm totally out of my element."

It was magic. I feel privileged to have been able to spend the day out of my element with him, and then to have brought him out of his element to end the day.

As far as eatin' went, I stopped in at Napoleon House for a muff' (I didn't dare break through the parade crowds to go anywhere else), and I like the warm sandwich, but their olive salad is seriously subpar.

Reason I like longer-term vacations: they give you time to notice when the sign on the Clarion Inn Suites is repaired.

Day 21 in NOLA

2010-01-30T14:48:00.000-08:00

Day 21 in NOLA was a lovely rainy day. The kind of day that forces one to seek refuge in a dark, cozy bar.

But before then, I enjoyed a nice lunch at Liberty's Kitchen up on Broad at Tulane. Much like Cafe Reconcile (which I had planned to visit but never quite got around t0), Liberty's Kitchen is a youth development program for at-risk teens. I personally think the program is a great idea, though I'm curious as to the on-the-ground results. I watched a trainer give an overwhelming introduction to a kid who seemed completely lost. The only reason I wasn't lost was because I've received really similar training and worked as a barista for a couple of years (he was starting the program and learning the coffee side of things). I don't know. The woman helping him clearly knew her stuff, but she seemed really rushed (problem one) and didn't really check in with her trainee to see if he was following her (I don't think he was - she was kind of all over the place). But the place was well run and the staff I dealt with were great. I wish them (and Reconcile) all the best.

I was supposed to head to Riverbend for dinner at Boulangerie, but that was not to be. So I ducked into R Bar for a couple of drinks before deciding what I'd do for dinner (my plan was to check out TBC on the corner before heading up to Donna's to dance to the Pinettes - TBC wasn't playing, due to rain I imagine, but the Pinettes were wondeful - keep on rockin' girls!). When I left after my two Salty Dogs, a guy outside the bar said, "You can't leave now, you'll miss the jambalaya!" I turned back and said that I might come back, if he could convince me. He lifted the lid of a gigantic pot. I inhaled. I returned for dinner. It was easily the best I've had (though of course I'm no expert). He said he used nine kinds of sausage and proceeded to list them, but I was too busy eating to take notes.

I should have included my hand for perspective - this pot was about two feet across.

After missing TBC and rocking out to the Pinettes (though no one else was dancing, you can't stop me if a brass band is playing), I headed home down Rampart and peered into an open doorway, down a marble and oak hallway. It turns out it's the NOAC (New Orleans Athletic Club) and I learned from the cleaning lady that you can go on a tour of the facilities (sadly, this trip, I don't have enough time). But... it was open because they were finishing up a film shoot, and the locations guy took me on a mini tour. Of the (!) bar (gorgeous), the salt-water pool (surrounded by an upper mezzanine with a gorgeous wrought iron railing).

I think the thing about this city is that you have to be in the right place at the right time, but I feel that here, there are almost an infinite number of right places and right times. I could have been having a completely other kind of experience here, and would probably be having such as great a time (I don't know if I really believe that, but I sort of do).

Day 20 in NOLA

2010-01-28T21:16:00.003-08:00

I had a great day, but a little planning would have gone a long way. I biked up and around all through Mid-City, winding up at Liuzza's by the Track. And yes, it is right by the track. Unfortunately, races aren't run on Thursdays (and Galatoire's is open for a highly recommended lunch experience that is, by all accounts, just as enjoyable but much less harried than the ultra-competitive Friday version). So I should have done Galatoire's today (better luck next time) and Liuzza's tomorrow, so that I could swing by the races afterwards. I might just do that, but I also might not (considering that I have made some tentative lunchtime arrangements - mental arrangements that is).

So Liuzza's it was, and it was a whole lot of fun, though I wound up ordering twice as much food as I should have (this has become a familiar refrain). I got their nice Creole gumbo garnished or accented or just topped with shrimp. It was good, but I'm still hankering after that thickened gumbo I had at Boulangerie on Magazine. It appears I have a preference, and that's good to know (that said, the gumbo at Liuzza's was lovely). However, I also got a side of fries slash sweet potato fries, because I'm easy. They were also good, but did I really need an enormous side of fries?

Maybe I did.

Anyway, there was more riding around, some French Quarter parfumerie business, and general transit taking.

For dinner, thanks to the folks at Chowhound, I wound up at Clancy's. I would say it's an excellent "real New Orleans experience" and the food was fine, but I don't need to go back (not to say you might not love it). It's kind of high-falutin' and clique-y (and no, you are not part of the clique), which has a certain charm, I suppose. I had the ridiculous fried oysters with brie to start. It's ludicrous. It's exactly as decadent as you are imagining it to be. I also had the panéed veal with crab and (I believe) a Bearnaise sauce. Now, I am absolutely not one to send back a dish for minor imperfections, but perhaps I should have? You tell me. The mashed potatoes were lukewarm (the butter, which was room temperate, was hard to melt). There were lumps. Now, I actually enjoy lumpy mashed potatoes, but that's when they're done up, you know, all rustic style (read: my style). But when they're puréed, shouldn't they be lump free? Also, there were the odd bits of shell in the crab. Again, nothing to write home about, and to me, nothing worth complaining over, but maybe that could be something I change, at least in upscale restaurants where the waiters wear tuxedos. It was good, just not great. Oh well. It was fun to go.

I caught the ole Magazine bus to get there, and the streetcar home... which dropped me off at Bourbon, where TBC were playing again. I danced in the street for two hours.

I could really get used to this.

Day 19 in NOLA

2010-01-28T21:16:00.001-08:00

Yesterday (was it only yesterday?) already seems so far away I can hardly remember how the hours passed. I think the end of a trip has that effect on me. Realizing that the end is nearing, I feel the urge to speed around and "get things done," even if those things are only randomly selected itineraries that actually make no real sense.

Yesterday on my itinerary was actually visiting Algiers. I had taken the ferry across once, but only to go and come right back. This time, I brought my bike. Algiers is adorable. Adorable and quiet. One of those lazy towns that seems lost in time (and in this case that seems a million miles away from New Orleans). If the last ferry were just a teeny bit later (I heard tell it runs from NOLA at 12:15), it would actually be an amazing place to live (in my opinion). But a midnight last call is just a tad early. No room for error.

But anyway, I didn't eat in Algiers, and quite frankly, I can't think of where I did eat (any of my meals).

...

It all just came back in a flash. I went to the Quarter for coffee, and decided to try the beignets at Cafe Beignet (the Pepsi challenge, as it were). Overall, I'd describe them as equally enjoyable, just very different. They're much lighter and larger, with less powdered sugar. Other than that, very similar. I'd eat either (or both) again.

I met a new friend for muffalettas at Central Grocery, and quite frankly, I'm surprised it took me so long to get acquainted. They are amazing. The olive "salad" is divine, and who would have thought of combining it with a variety of lunchmeat and light yet dense bread? Oh... those crazy Italians. They got it in one.

So, pondering my dinner choices, I decided to hit up Mr. B's for their crazy BBQ Shrimp. Now, whoa there, fellas. Not what you think. Not even close. Guaranteed. First? No barbecue (gas, coal or other) is involved in any way. Second? No barbecue sauce is involved in any way. Third? Well, it's not really a third insofar as it's got nothing to do with the barbecue misapprehension we've just cleared up. But still, third is: Shells? On. Heads? On. Legs? On. Bib? You better put it on. Basically, these crazy little crustaceans are cooked up in a sauce that is basically made of about a pound of butter. Sure, it's also got a ton of pepper and a few other seasonings, but it's basically enormous shrimp in a delicious butter sauce. Do I give the impression that I enjoyed it? Thoroughly.

Plus, since Day 19 in NOLA is also Wednesday in NOLA, that means the Treme Brass Band was playing at the Candlelight. And wow, the whole show was great, but that first set was mindblowing. Needless to say, I was a dancing fool, yet again. Thank you, Treme.

Interlude

2010-01-27T17:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, the secrets you learn.

Conti is not "con-tee" but rather "con-tie." Go figure.

Muffalettas are pronounced as if they were spelled muffa-lottas.

A.P. Tureaud may be called that now, but people from the neighbourhood still call it London Ave. (They also wonder why the name of the canal didn't change to the A.P. Tureaud Canal, but for some reason was left as the London Ave. Canal.)

I am far from passing for local. Or, far from passing as from here. Given my lousy bike and dorky helmet, most people seem to assume that I'm one of the many who gravitated here after the storm to do restorations of one kind or another. So I can pass for fake local, but certainly not for local local. Oh well. Next best thing?

Day 18 in NOLA

2010-01-26T20:17:00.000-08:00

So today was, yet again, more jazz inspired than food inspired.

I went on a long and circuitous route up to Carrollton (stopping in at an interesting urban garden on the way), down Carrollton past Claibourne (yes, they meet, incomprehensibly) around the Oak Street area (nice, cute). I stopped in at the lovely Camellia Grill for a burger and to recoup. Next, I hit the levee and followed the bike path to god knows where, then doubled back, hit Audobon park again, came down Magazine, finally went to the circle bar at Lee Circle (as charming as I hoped it would be) and came home to rest up before hitting Bullet's for Kermit Ruffins' Tuesday night show.

The show itself was fun, but it was also some kind of event for the Zulu Queens, which was the highlight of the evening as far as I was concerned. I came home with a flashy (and flashing) Zulu Queens' necklace, assorted other gold necklaces, a Saints-themed nerf ball (that I gave away to a gentleman who had otherwise failed to score) and (oooh!) a Zulu Queens' parasol!

Fabulous.

Day 17 in NOLA

2010-01-25T21:08:00.001-08:00

Today, as was to be expected, was somewhat of a write-off. Yes, I was, if not actually hungover, certainly not at my best. Also, the indomitable Molly departed, leaving me somewhat dejected. It was big fun spending time with her. This guesthouse has proved to be a wellspring of interesting people.

To soothe my troubled mind, I hit up the Two Sisters for red beans and rice (which I have somehow managed to fail to eat on a Monday for the duration of my stay). While they were ok (and gigantic), the experience was particularly noteworthy for my encounter with a streetcar driver whose car I've ridden a few times. He came in and recognized me (one night I was so concerned because he seemed so tired and out of it that I asked if he was alright to drive, and he remembered my intrusive slash inquisitive ways). We had a nice chat, and he told me about a streetcar manufacting facility uptown. This really is a small town. I can't help but run into people I've had random encounters with.

The rest of the day was kind of low key, though I did have the best Bloody Mary of my trip so far, at the Spotted Cat (a jazz bar on Frenchmen) of all places. In fact, rather than stay for a second drink, I headed back to my prevous number one (the Erin Rose), to compare, and I have to say that hands down, the Spotted Cat's bartender mixes a better Bloody Mary. Her secret? The brine from the pickled green pepper garnish.

Day 16 in NOLA - Who dat indeed.

2010-01-25T19:40:00.000-08:00

Today was an all around fabulous day in New Orleans. For us, it started with an Uptown second line: The Ladies and Men of Unity and The Lady Rollers.

The route started at the Rock Bottom on Tchoupitoulas (greatest street name ever?) and wound up and down and around, finishing where we started. I lost the enchanting Molly somewhere en route, but we hooked up again at the guesthouse so we could find a place in the Quarter to watch the Saints game.

Holy cow. What a game it was. I was convinced before it started that the Saints were destined for victory, but they really contrived to make it a nail-biter. Word is additional EMS techs and emerg staff were on hand for the inevitable heart attacks, but I bet there weren't enough of them.

We looked high and low for a bar with available seats, and wound up at Harry's, on Chartres. It was a rollicking good time. We met a lovely gentleman from Cincinnati by way of Biloxi, and we roved around after the game until the wee hours.

Who dat. Who dat, indeed.

Day 15 in NOLA

2010-01-24T08:03:00.001-08:00

Day 15 was a little low-key... not much to report. I had a selection of small plates at Ignatius for lunch and spent a lot of time just wandering around the Garden District. For dinner, I visited Herbsaint and sat at the bar (sitting at the bar for dinner has become one of my favourite things).

I chose Herbsaint because it's run by Donald Link - the same man behind Cochon and Cochon Butcher (which I adored). But the meal at Herbsaint was just meh. I had the gumbo of the day and a nice salad with a buttermilk blue cheese dressing (very nice), but my shrimp and grits were beyond disappointing. Overcooked shrimp, dried out grits with soggy okra.

Luckily, the evening was redeemed when I caught the tail-end of street show by the TBC Brass Band (again!).

Teacher and student

Day 14 in NOLA

2010-01-24T08:02:00.001-08:00

So I wasn't going to crash another jazz funeral. I really wasn't. But when I got a phone call at the jazz show last night, exhorting me to go, I felt I couldn't really refuse. It was a jazz funeral for Mr. Benny's (other) uncle Lionel. And it was beautiful. I couldn't ask for a better send-off.

Me, loathe to intrude, I was hovering around the periphery, confusing the people in attendance. They all thought I was some weirdo looking to steal a car or something. Why didn't I come on over? And I did. The mourners walked and danced and sang out loud. They knocked on the door of uncle Lionel's old house. And he was finally carried away, alone, to his rest.

Damn. I'd like me one of those.

EDIT: I somehow totally forgot to mention a lovely lunch (which I believe was on this day) at the Green Goddess. I had an absolutely stellar bison and bacon meatloaf sandwich (of all things), with a fresh little arugula salad on the side. Just the thing. I was ravenous after all that second-lining. Thumbs up to the folks at Goddess, but do try to go at an off time (luckily, they serve lunch until four - keep it in mind when you're wandering the Quarter starving in the late afternoon).

Later in the evening, I accompanied the lovely Molly to a screening of a film called Mine - about pet owners who lost their animals during Katrina, and their attempts to reconnect. It was a lovely film, though infuriating at times. Go on out and see it. Oh, and next time you're in NOLA, check out the Zeitgeist theatre. It's a great little volunteer-run venue. They could use the support (although, based on the sold-out show that opened the night we were there, they're doing all right for themselves).

For a nightcap, we hit up Acme, because who doesn't need to eat those char-grilled oysters a second time? Mmmm

Oh, and on the way to the show, we caught the TBC Brass Band making noise at the corner of Bourbon and Canal. Wow. Those kids are talented. Keep your eyes and ears peeled.

Day 13 in NOLA

2010-01-21T16:31:00.001-08:00

Today was originally supposed to be a Habitat day, but based on yesterday's disorganization and based even more so on the fact that I had a bike that needed fixing and (who am I kidding?) the fact that I was out dancing until all hours, I spent the day taking care of business and taking it easy. 75 and sunny plus humidity was also a reason to just chill and enjoy a bland day.

I took my bike to the folks at Bayou Bicycles, and they fixed me up. Apart from that, I decided to take a random drive. I headed east, navigated some detours, traversed the Upper 9, the Lower 9, Arabi, St. Bernard (where I spotted "St. Bernard - Stay Positive" the single most amazing official signage I have ever seen), and Chalmette.

In Chalmette, I had lunch at Today's Ketch, where, despite having a decent lunch, I made up my mind to avoid po' boys (unless I head back to Parkway). My waitress convinced me that I needed a fried shrimp po' boy, and it was good (the shrimp were small fry, but the breading was interesting, and, for the first time, spicy). But I just can't for the life of me understand why I would ever again order fried seafood on a sandwich. It's so bizarre. I mean, fried seafood is amazing, don't get me wrong. And I will eat more of it. But why smush it up in a baguette (or a pistolette, which is what they use here, and which are slightly different, in most cases lighter and airier than a baguette)? It's fine, it's ok, but it doesn't really make sense to me, especially since fried shrimp and oysters are eminent finger foods.

It's beyond me.

Tonight I went out to see Kid Merv & All that Jazz at Sidney's Saloon. It was a quiet show, unlike last night, with virtually no dancing. The show was fine, if you like that sort of thing, but it's the kind of jazz with lots of solos descending into a cacophony of sound. It's not really my kind of jazz. I've been amazed and beyond happy to have found that a solid community exists of more old school straight up brass (with winds and percussion) that has a solid beat and a melody you (read: I) can dance to.

So despite my decision to Habitat again tomorrow... it's going to go to next week. There's a jazz funeral tomorrow. Treme will be playing. I will be there. In the second line.

Day 12 in NOLA

2010-01-20T16:50:00.000-08:00

Today wasn't supposed to be a food day. It was supposed to be a volunteer day, and pretty much nothing else.

It turned out to be pretty much everything else, with not much in the way of volunteer work.

I know what it's like to work with volunteers, and I know that it's hard to get things organized, but when I die, you'll find "efficiency" written on my heart and it's hard for me to dilly dally around. We got a little work done, but we were way too many volunteers for way too little work, and it resulted in a lot of sitting around and aimlessness. Better luck tomorrow.

That said, on my lunch break, I headed up to Walker's Southern BBQ to try their illustrious cochon de lait po boy. That is in fact what I ordered, but once I saw a pork plate, I had to switch my order (it became dinner and lunch, both).

Man.

(BBQ is never really all that photogenic)

I forgot to try and order it "outside brown" (my bad), but it was still amazing. Unlike NC bbq, insofar as there is no delicious vinagary sauce, but juicy, succulent and bursting with flavour nonetheless. Plus, the potato salad and mustard greens were stellar. All around A+ for Walker's (who said there ain't no bbq in this town?).

The other highlight of the day was a fantastic show at the Candlelight Lounge. The Treme Brass Band et all played a great show (broadcast on WWOZ) and they brought the house down. I danced all night. Plus, everybody's so crazy friendly that you feel like you're there with all your best friends (I went accompanied by a woman from the guest house and a gentleman I met at Habitat who moved here from western NC, plus Uncle Lionel was giving me mad props, as was Kid Merv, Mr. Benny, Steve - the grandson of the woman whose funeral I attended - and Robert. I feel like I have a crew, though the members of my imaginary crew are, of course, unaware of it.)

I can see why people like this town.

Day 11 in NOLA

2010-01-19T20:00:00.000-08:00

Day 11 was not much of a food day in NOLA. It was a bike day. I hit up the post office in the morning (near the bayou, near Parkway), and down the hill and behind a ways I spotted a bikeshop. Bayou Bicycles. Much like the super friendly guys on Magazine (and unlike the secret-handshake fraternity on Frenchmen), they were incredibly helpful (oiled my chain and pedals (of all things) just for nice), and friendly. I got a whole mental bike journey up to the lake and around "the point" mapped out for me.

And away I went!

It was 75 and sunny, the birds were out, the construction workers were out, the fishermen were out (though nothing was biting) and I was out in the world on a bike. I was having so danged much fun that, with the exception of a mid-afternoon pralines and cream ice cream break, I forgot to eat.

I was having so much fun that when my chain broke half a block south of Broad (where my chain slipped off the first day - that street clearly has something against me) I kept pedaling furiously, as if somehow, on such a lovely day, my chain would have no choice but to right itself.

Sadly, that was not to be the case. One of my links is busted, and despite the kindness of several strangers, I'll have to take it in to a professional. Luckily, I think I've got just the place (see above).

But Day 11 was also first day of a car rental day, so I shifted gears, shifted into a relative luxury mode, and headed out of town to eat someplace I couldn't ordinarily get.

I somewhat arbitrarily chose the Rivershack Tavern (which appears in reality much as it does on its website). I had the fried shrimp and fried catfish, both of which were excellent, with a side of medicore fries and an abysmal salad. Though, attention to out of town visitors - be careful if you follow the googlemaps directions to get there. You might wind up getting on the causeway by mistake and headed off across Lake Ponchartrain.

Day 10 in NOLA

2010-01-18T19:33:00.001-08:00

This morning I woke up and said to myself, "To hell with a healthy breakfast. I want fried seafood."

So I headed down to Stanley, just off Jackson Square for what basically amounts to Eggs Benedict with gratuitous fried oysters. Fabulous. Though I must say that while it was a good, solid meal, the hollandaise was just fine (as compared with the lighter-than-air hollandaise from Mr. B's). Plus, rather than ham, the English muffins were adorned with "Canadian" bacon. (Which is basically ham.)

I wandered around all day, exploring the Maringy and Bywater, which were right up my alley. I rode down along the tracks (which cut off your view of the water, unfortunately) over to Poland, spotted the Joint (a BBQ, well, joint that I plan to check out when I can get around to it with some kind of appetite), came back a ways down the bike path and hit a neighbourhood bar. Sat in the sun. The weather has finally come around.

Oh, and I also squeezed in my first pralines this morning, and weren't they delicious. A creamy, sugary confectionary that melts in your mouth. I tried a sample at the Southern Candymakers near the French Market, and found myself walking away with a bagful of different types (the standard being pecan). I figure I'll probably be needing a late afternoon pickmeup during my volunteer hours Wed. and Thurs. (That's my excuse, anyhow.)

And the day closed (read: the last meal of the day was) at the Parkway Bakery. It's not too far from where I'm staying (as best I can figure it, I'm technically in Treme, they're technically in Bayou St. John, but we're both in Mid-City, or near enough as makes no nevermind). It's a lovely little neighbourhood that I'll have to explore more of during the day, but the important thing is that I decided to give po' boys one last whirl. (The sandwiches I've had so far have been fair to middling. Nothing I'd necessarily need to eat again. That said, I'm a girl who loves sandwiches, so it seemed to me odd that an epicurean city like this would fall for wimpy sandwiches like the ones I've had.)

Am I glad I did. I had a nice chat with the gent at the order window, and he steered me towards their home cooked hot roast beef with gravy. Hoo boy. I got the "small" sandwich (technically, it's "regular"), no side (I'm learning), with a rootbeer. This is one messy sandwich. I actually needed a fork. I got it dressed (here, as everywhere, dressed is tomatoes, lettuce and mayo, and also here (as some places) pickles). It was a juicy, dripping, glorious mess. And the bread here was substantially more, well, substantial than I had at the other places. More typical? Less typical? I can't say for sure, but what I can say is that it's a much better vehicle for a sloppy sandwich like this one (which is just a far superior sandwich, overall).

For an intuitive understanding of the differerence (not to say that there's a real comparison flavourwise, just texture and contentwise), think subway vs. a Philly cheesesteak from Cosmi's. Based on this po' boy (and based on their proximity to where I'm at), I think I'll have to try their fried oyster po' boy. Or their fried shrimp. Or their fried catfish.

They do have combinations (shrimp & oyster, catfish & shrimp, or oyster & catfish), but those only come on a large, and I have to say I don't think I could handle it. I was also told about another creation of theirs that sounds absolutely ludicrous: their "surf and turf" is a combination of the messy roast beef and gravy that I had, topped with fried shrimp.

I dare you.

Day 9 in NOLA - second line

2010-01-17T15:05:00.001-08:00

I had breakfast at home. I had smoked sausage on the street. I had a couple of random spicy crawfish offered to me by a stranger from a plastic bag. I had tacos al pastor for dinner.

Today wasn't about food.

You might have guessed from the picture to the left what today was about.

Second line, second line, second line.

But it was completely accidental. I was supposed to go to a celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King, but I got waylaid and went on a tour of the Backstreet Cultural Museum instead. Robert gave me the tour while I was waiting for church to let out and the celebration to begin. The museum was amazing, but what came next was better. He let me in on a little more of the second line tradition... I was completely out to lunch. Thing is, there are 48 social aid and pleasure clubs that each hold a parade one Sunday out of the year. Robert hooked me up with today's, which was held by the Undefeated Ladies and Gents. And it was amazing. I walked/danced with them from about 12:30 to 4:30, so tonight I'm going to stay in and take it easy.

I leave this with you (not to rub it in or anything):

Day 8 in NOLA - Who dat?

2010-01-16T21:10:00.000-08:00

Who dat?

Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints?

For lunch on Saturday, I headed uptown to swanky Commander's Palace. This elegant, well-appointed sanctuary is a haven for the well heeled. Oh my. Is it ever. And it is the kind of place where, upon spotting a couple of discombobulated, undercaffeinated tourists loitering on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, a gracious hostess who hasn't even begun work yet will go out of her way to steer them towards the nearest coffee house. Thank you Miss Carol (anyone out there know who she is?).

So I made a reservation (confirming on the phone that yes, I was aware of the dress code and had even dressed up for the occasion) and streetcared it over to the Garden District. I believe I sat in the Patio Room, but all of the rooms I saw were lovely. And the jazz combo was playing beside my table when I arrived, so all in all, I can't complain. I started with a Sidecar. (Brunch. New Orleans. Right.) I finished with the ultra girly and delicious Hibiscus Martini. And my food was divine. I started with the shrimp and tasso dish and it was amazing. Pickled okra and spicy glazed shrimp with a kind of spicy Cajun ham. Delicious. Oh, but wait! I lied!!

I started with a shot of the butternut squash bisque of the day (topped with whipped cream, if I'm not mistaken - oh the decadence). That was from the chef, just for kicks. Plus garlic bread, again, just for kicks. Then... my meal was taking longer than expected (but who was I to notice, sitting there with my cocktails and live jazz?), so my waiter brought me a bowl of turtle soup. Yes, you read that right. Turtle soup. It was on my to-do list, and it was delicious (I kind of doubt anything on the menu at CP is less than delicious). Slightly spicy, rich and thick, with beans (black beans?) and greens and finished tableside with a drizzle of sherry.

Completely unnecessary.

So then I had my "appetizer" and on to the main course. Shrimp and grits (yes, I asked the waiter if it would be overkill to have shrimp and then more shrimp, but he just looked at me, incredulous, and said that of course it wouldn't).

A terrific experience, and I'm glad I made it there for the jazz brunch. I may go back, if my pocketbook can stand it.

Later in the afternoon, I tried to get my ten dollar shot and a haircut, but I hadn't factored in the Saints game. There were no barroom haircuts to be had on Saturday, not by a long shot. So I wandered around and finally wound up in a bar that a colleague recommended as having the best Bloody Mary's in NOLA. They were pretty good.

And the Saints won.

And after I left the bar, I ran into this:

It was black, it was gold, it was a party in the street (though admittedly, every day on Bourbon Street is a party in the street). Go Saints!

To close the day, I grabbed a decent (not amazing) crabcake at the Red Fish Grill. Did I mention the Brennan dynasty? This would be another outpost. The crabcake was pan fried, and therein may lie my difficulty. It didn't hold a candle to Faidley's, and I think it's merely because it wasn't deep fried. Why on earth wouldn't you deep fry it? Doesn't deep frying make everything better?

Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints?

Day 7 in NOLA - feeling no pain

2010-01-15T18:14:00.001-08:00

Day seven saw me wolf down a little breakfast (thank you, Rouses) before hightailing it over to the upper 9th ward to join a second line.

Technically, I suppose, I didn't really join the second line, because there wasn't really one. What I did was attend a jazz funeral. The mass was held at Our Lady Star of the Sea church and the parade led around the block and down to St Roch cemetery. It was beautiful, though there wasn't much dancing to speak of (it was a bitterly cold day).

Benny Jones Sr. (the gentleman to the right - the man to his left is Uncle Lionel) is the band leader, and a finer ambassador for the city you couldn't find. He's the leader of the Treme Brass Band (which even before hearing I felt I had an affinity for, staying as I am in Treme). I still can't believe I got to join a second line(ish). Benny is amazing, not to mention hospitable. He gave me a ride home (he was going to Two Sisters, the soul food joint around the corner from me), and we swung by the Candlelight Lounge so I could see where they play on Wednesdays (I'll be there).

After I went home and changed (it really was that cold), I decided to hit another traditional New Orleans classic. I went to Antoine's. I had baked oysters with cognac garlic cream. I had chicken with Brabant potatoes (basically cubed potatoes fried with butter and garlic - go figure) and peas in a garlicky sauce (my waiter, James, agreed that mushrooms, which are supposed to be in the dish, are an abomination, so we managed to have them omitted) (and yes, it is the kind of place where you have your own personal waiter, and you don't make reservations for a table - you make reservations for your waiter). Finally, I had chocolate mousse (as I've had enough bread pudding this week to last me a lifetime).

But what I also had were the martinis. Who knew I liked martinis? I really like $0.25 martinis is what I like... I had five. Five was admittedly too many, but you live you learn. I started with a cajun martini, which was nice, but then I had a lemon drop, and it really was as sweet and tart and delicious as a lemon drop. I had several of those. I also had a peach martini, but really can see no reason not to stick with lemon drops.

Go Saints. James has tickets to the game tomorrow. I'm cheering for them, for him (and for this whole fine city)

Day 6 in NOLA

2010-01-14T22:25:00.001-08:00

On day six, I decided to go on an extended solo journey to a part of town I hadn't yet seen (Metairie). So off to Bozo's I went.

Though the ride should only take about half an hour, my bike is so rickety, and I'm looking so much, that it took more like an hour and a half. When I finally got there I was good and starved. I took a seat at the bar (my new favourite thing to do, but which for the record you can't do at Galatoire's if you want to get fed) and chatted up the bartender. On his advice, I ordered a fried oyster po' boy and their chicken and andouille gumbo. The gumbo was good, but they make it thin-style, which I don't prefer (I'm very excited to be at the point where I have a preference). The po' boy was also good, but I'm thinking they're definitely not for me. The bread is a light, fluffy, insubstantial thing, and it's throwing off my groove. I think I'll be better off ordering the contents of the po' boy without the housing. Fair enough. Live (and eat) and learn.

But one of the best parts of my journey was when the bartender walked up to me and handed me a single boiled shrimp (as big as a banana). Did I like 'em? Do I ever. It was my first shrimp boil, but it won't be my last.

For dinner, my cycling companion invited me for soup. I picked up salad fixins at Rouses (a fabulous grocery store just up Canal a ways). We had a nice meal, and then I headed down to Preservation Hall. Was it ever worth the wait. The Treme Brass Band was playing, and they were a blast. No drinks are served inside (but you can bring yours in - I'm still getting used to that whole drinking and walking thing). There are also no restrooms (but you can head next door to use theirs). The show was amazing, but the most exciting thing was that I heard tell of a second-line funeral to be held today...

Day 5 in NOLA

2010-01-13T21:03:00.000-08:00

Day five started with a bike ride across town with a fellow traveller who has eliminated any reservations I had about folding bikes. I may have to get one, if only to be sure of having wheels on my travels.

We biked down through the CBD and the not so gentrified portion of the Warehouse District, winding up on Magazine (and luckily so, since his pedal somehow stripped the threads in his crank arm, but not so far away from Mike's Bikes (who are way nicer than the folk at Michael's on Frenchmen)).

Lunch was the seafood gumbo at the Boulangerie on Magazine. It, and the bread that came wiht it, was amazing. I've learned a thing or two about gumbo since being here, and that is that no two gumbos are the same. By and large, I prefer the thick, stewy version, which so far has tended to have a rich, brown hue, not unlike the chili on a Lafayette coney island. The gumbo at Boulangerie is of that ilk, though I couldn't say if they use a roux as a thickener or if it's all from the okra (my guess is the latter).

We biked on and on, around Audobon park, down by the Mississippi, back up around through the garden district, and stopped for a forgettable blueberry muffin at a coffee shop whose name escapes me.

After getting turned around (and having highway overpasses mysterious appear between us and our final destination), we carried our bikes over a pedestrian overpass and eventually made our way home. For dinner, I joined the gentleman I had conned into joining me for a "shot and a haircut - ten bucks" at Acme's, and we went to K-Paul's, but sadly I have nothing good to say. I had the blackened Louisiana Drum, and while the fish itself was pretty good, everything else was lacklustre (to the point that the mashed potatoes were lukewarm and the piped-out sauce - I don't know what it was - was frozen). Oh well. I lived to eat another day...

Day 4 in NOLA

2010-01-13T20:36:00.000-08:00

(Are these titles getting stale?)

Did I have breakfast on Day 4? Did I have lunch? I seem to have had two dinners. My schedule was thrown way off.

Why?

'Cause I got me a bike.

Getting a bike meant that I tooled around all day, falling in love and falling in hate with it (it's a very poor fit, you back pedal to break, and it squeaks - that said, it's a bike). It also meant that I found myself starving at four o'clock and realized that I hadn't eaten anything since my morning citrusfest. To remedy that, I looked around and saw that I was right around the corner from Cochon (remember Cochon?). Being right around the corner from Cochon means that I was directly in front of Cochon Butcher. It was a toss up between Cochon Butcher and NOLA Grocery, but I really had to pee. So it was another porcine meal for me (and how bad is that, really?).

Wow. I should probably preface this by saying that regular readers (read: my family and friends) know that I'm more about substance than style. I also prefer more casual dining to more formal fare. Not that Cochon is ultra formal, but the Butcher is the kind of place where the cook recognizes the face you're making as a swooning over truffle and foie gras butter and then proceeds to pull out her favourite (labelless) hot sauce for you because "it's my favourite and everything needs hot sauce."

The draw (other than a possible ladies' room) was lardo crostini. They were divine. With or without hot sauce (and her hot sauce was the best I've had to date). Spicy, salty, porky... it was my introduction to lardo but I'll quickly get to know it better. I swooned again. The texture is like chewy butter... I know that sounds gross, but it was delicious. I was going to call it bacon fat but in a good way (mmm bacon fat), but it's actually cured pork fat back. Close enough. And it was amazing. So good, in fact, that it whet my appetite for a little something else.

That something else was the black-eyed pea and collards soup. After confirming that it did in fact contain pork products (bacon, though I suspect also a pork hock or something), I ordered it up, they served it up and I swooned for a third time. Each bite (slurp, spoonful, what have you) was better than the last. Some slurps were of soup alone. Some were soup with the special hot sauce. Some contained sliced scallions. They were all amazing. Spicy, bacony, beany, collardy. Words actually fail me.

For dinner I went to Luke. It smelled fabulous and looked nice. Things started poorly with a long delay by my waitress who appeared to prefer not to wait on solo diners. That said, my crawfish bisque was a really nice start, but everything else was kind of off. Maybe it was a mistake to get the daily special? It was a whole roast cochon de lait, which appeared to be mushed together pork with an overly crispy skin, with cherry mustard (not quite sure what that was - it seemed sort of like greasy grits - maybe it was?) and stewed greens. I didn't much care for the bread pudding; it was dense and bitter. The vanilla ice cream and butter pecan sauce, however, were nice (and all I really needed).

Day 3 in NOLA

2010-01-13T20:20:00.000-08:00

I'm going to have to keep current if I want to remember all of my meals. Either that or keep eating brunches as extravagant as the one at Mr. B's to keep my numbers down.

But day 3 was memorable.

Thanks to a timely post by an Australian visitor to the lovely guesthouse I'm staying at, I was made aware of a diner just a hop and a skip away. This prevents me from having to trek all the way down to the quarter or up to Carrollton or Betsy's or someplace for coffee (either that or just pick some up to brew my damned self already). I wound up staying for sausage and grits. Just what I needed and just around the corner suits me just fine. Two Sisters is a nice little soul food joint, and I may well return for a meal other than breakfast (I may also return for breakfast - there's something to be said for proximity after all).

So breakfast was just what the doctor ordered.

For lunch, I hit up Cochon. I ordered the oyster and bacon sandwich (how can you not order pork at a restaurant named after a pig?), and it was decent, but ridiculously skimpy on the bacon. I'd go back, though, because the other dishes I saw come out of the kitchen looked amazing, and because of information that will be revealed at a later date, but overall, it was just ok. Nothing special. Don't let that stop you, though.

For dinner, I decided to keep going with my oyster theme. And am I ever glad I did. I almost skipped Acme Oyster House,* and quite frankly that would have been stupid. Of course, you can't know that in advance, but I'm telling you now. Don't make the mistake I almost made. Sit at the bar. Order a platter of raw oysters and a platter of chargrilled. Wash 'em down with an Abita. You won't regret it. (Though you may regret not taking pictures.) (Or you may, perhaps, not regret not taking pictures, as that might require you to return and sit at the bar and watch those oyster shuckers shuck them oysters.)

The highlight of my culinary journey thus far.

* Thing is, it's a huge tourist draw. Now, that isn't necessarily a 100% guarantee of bad food. What it is, though, is a 100% guarantee of huge crowds. There's always a lineup. Always. Even at 20 degrees f. But on the night I stopped by, I thought I to ask the doorgirl if there was a wait for the counter. There was, of about two minutes. And the thing is, you want to sit at the counter. So do go, but go alone, and sit at the counter.

Day 2 in NOLA

2010-01-12T16:19:00.000-08:00

Day 2 was a little more auspicious, falling as it did on a Sunday (Sunday brunches being a bit of an extravaganza it seems). I wound up at Mr. B's Bistro, and am I ever glad I did. The food was good, the jazz was jazzy, but best of all was my bouncy, exuberant waitress. She was my kind of girl. We chatted restaurants up and down (I even pulled out my six page, sortable Excel spreadsheet) and she proceeded to go up and down the list, checking off the must-hits and the run-screamings. I'm pleased to say that my list met with her approval, though she also gave me a heads up about the snootier places on it (that I may well skip).

After starting with a Bloody Mary ("We drink. That's what we do."), I dove into my triumvirate of soups: the gorgeous gumbo yaya, a boring seafood gumbo, and the soup du jour, which in my case was an oyster eggplant bisque, much livened by a generous addition of Crystal hot sauce.

OK. The soups were good. But the main dish was phenomenal. Try a pork belly and sweet potato hash, topped with poached eggs and lighter-than-air Hollandaise sauce. I could barely finish my plate (but don't worry - I did).

Brunch culminated with a bread pudding with Jameson's sauce (no the alcohol is not cooked out). That I could not finish. In fact, I'm such a lightweight that for dinner, all I had was a couple of oranges.

I'm working my way up to gluttony. I'm not quite there yet.

Day 1 in NOLA

2010-01-12T15:59:00.000-08:00

So my first day in town saw me eat at a place that was not on my list, or even on my radar. Café Amélie saved me on a bitterly cold afternoon. I had a lot of running around to do and wound up missing the usual lunch hour entirely, so almost everything was closed. I spotted the café, advertising lunch served 'till 3, and ran in to see if they could squeeze me in.

Squeeze they did.

I had a lovely sweet potato andouille sausage soup and a rather forgettable beet salad. The food was decent, but the café itself was enchanting (more so, I imagine, when it's not 20 degrees F), nestled away as it is in a sweet little courtyard.

For dinner, based on the advice of Friday night's cabdriver, I headed to Joey K's where I had a roast beef debris po' boy and my dinner companion had fish. My sandwich was fine, but if that's all there is to a po' boy, I might have to stick with non-sandwich dishes.

The Abita Amber and the Restoration were my beers of choice, and they were both eminently drinkable.

So Day 1 was kind of blah as far as food was concerned... what about Day 2?

The straight and narrow

2010-01-12T08:01:00.000-08:00

So my breakfast tradition (if you can call three days a tradition), is to feast on delicious citrus I picked up at the Crescent City Farmer's Market my first morning in New Orleans.

"New Orleans," you say, "Whatever is she up to?"

She's up to eating her way across New Orleans, and has gotten a good jump.

Of course, I had to start at the Café du monde. In fact, I chose my hotel for its proximity to the fabled café. I did get turned around on my first morning, and found myself walking in the wrong direction, but I could tell I was finally homing in on my destination when I starting picking up a whiff of sweetness floating on the frigid air. You really can smell that sweet café from half a block away. There's no mistaking it.

So I totally bent the shafts by joining a table of two (table sharing would seem to be a good idea but is not at all in the tradition of the café). Then re-bent the shafts by inviting a table of three to join me, since I was just finishing up. I totally left a wake of destruction behind me.

But the beignets were divine, and, no joke, they really are served under an inch-high sprinkling, no sprinkling is the wrong word, coating? of icing sugar. Two thumbs up.

That said, there's no way I can start every day with that kind of indulgence, so I headed over and picked up said citrus. Satsumas, which have a loose skin but are kind of bland (to my thinking), Tangelos, which are delicious, but I think not Minneola Tangelos (and much harder to peel than the Satsumas) a couple of grapefruits and a bag of sweet Kumquats. So now I'm on the straight and narrow 'till noon.

Clean-out-your-fridge pasta

2010-01-03T09:47:00.000-08:00

For reasons I shall remain mysterious about, I've been madly eating my way through my fridge. For other reasons, I've been eating my way through my pantry and freezer (you can't put more delicious stuff in your freezer if it's already full of other delicious stuff, so you either have to eat what's there or get a deep freeze) (that's next).

Here's what I spotted earlier today:
Pantry: much garlic, many onions, pint of grape tomatoes
Fridge: random roasted squash and sweet potatoes

Looking at these odds and ends, I was reminded of a delicious pasta I made before and decided to roll with it. But I also needed to get rid of all those onions. So while getting my caffeine fix (the burr grinder is awesome, mom!), I chopped up some onions and threw them in a pot with some oil to sweat it out on med-low for several hours (I set the timer to stir every fifteen or so).

By noontime, I've got me a mess of caramelized onions (half of which I threw in the freezer for later). You can see that this is only the kind of recipe that is "quick" if you have half of the ingredients prepped already (but it's all stuff that's easy to do while you're doing other things).

So here's what you do:

Roast one squash, one sweet potato, and as much garlic as you'd like earlier in the week.
Caramelize onions (earlier in the day, earlier in the week, whatever).
Bring a pot of water to a boil. Salt it. Add the pasta (I'm obsessed with Mafalda corta - it's flat pasta, about an inch long, with frilly edges that is totally charming and that takes about eight-ten minutes to cook).
Meanwhile... chop garlic (or not) and fry it up with your cherry tomatoes (I halved them for kicks, but that's unnecessary).
When the garlic starts to turn golden and the tomatoes start losing their juice, add the (cold) squash and sweet potato. Actually, you could probably do this at any point. Also, if you've already got your caramelized onions, throw them in at any time. Now your "sauce" is good to go.
Drain the pasta (reserving some of the pasta water just in case).
Add the pasta to the "sauce" and add as much pasta water as you'd like (I used about half a cup).
Add cheese. I juiced it up with a really nice parm I picked up a while back, but if you had goat cheese (the original cheese used in the original recipe) that would work fine too. Manechgo? I can't see why not. Use what you've got (within reason - no blue).

Enjoy.

Fresh artisanal bread

2009-11-14T16:41:00.001-08:00

It may strike you as hilarious that I just transferred a heating pad from my oven (to maintain an even heat of around 70 degrees for dough rising) to my bed.

At least, that's how it struck me.

Doncha just love

2009-10-23T17:06:00.001-07:00

how I glossed over my protracted absence there?

Oh, Molly.

2009-10-23T16:48:00.000-07:00

There are some bloggers who seem to feel that they should be producing Gourmet-magazine worthy meals for every post. Maybe they should. Who am I to say? But what I do know is that the only recipes I have ever made from the lovely Orangette are simple, homely recipes that she seems to feel the need to apologize for.

Please don't apologize, Molly. I love you. I need you.

Now, she's been crazy busy lately, out there opening a pizza restaurant of all things, but I feel that she's still out there keeping an eye on us, because look: despite a prolonged absence lo these many months (due to restaurant-opening mayhem, for which I harbour no ill will), she recently posted the smack-your-forehead-I-can't-believe-how-good-this-is Warm Butternut and Chickpea Salad with Tahini adapted from Casa Moro, which I have now adapted from her.

She posted the recipe on Oct 1. Two weeks later, she saved me. It was fate.

Coming home from Boston to an empty fridge in the middle of the autumn harvest, I picked up a squash on the way home and wondered what I could make. I ambled around the web a bit, searching for recipes, and then thought of Orangette.

She had never done me wrong. A record kale crop and no idea of what to do with it? Kale with a fried egg and toast becomes a staple. Too many carrots and a vague memory of side salads at Montreal restaurants? A modified French-style carrot salad saves the day. And the easiest, most delightful, always in the pantry solution for desperate evenings (or something you'd like to whip up just 'cause it tastes good?)? The dead easy Chickpea Salad with Lemon and Parmesan, though I usually add garlic.

Now, she might not like to think of these as her legacy, but you ask me, she's done all right.

Thanks, Molly. I've made the exquisite butternut and chickpea salad with tahini dressing two times in less than two weeks. I can't get enough (even grabbing bite after bite - after dinner - as I walk by the bowl "cooling" on the counter).

Trimmings...

2008-09-16T17:06:00.001-07:00

Admittedly, the trip itself is somewhat faded by now, but I personally think that the faded bits, the jagged edges, the dogeared memories, they're just as good, if not better, than the crisp, clean, digital photos. And so.

The trip fades.

But the bbq doesn't.

I decided that we were going on a bbq odyssey, and that's more or less what we did. A haphazard, non-linear, back and forth sort of odyssey. With the exception of an unfortunate non-bbq meal in Durham (I believe you that there's great Mexican in Durham, I just don't believe you can get anything to eat in that town after 8pm), we were basically all bbq all the time.

Now, the tricky part is this though: We happened across the best, most succulent, richest, fattest bbq imagineable on the first day. And no, it wasn't at Lexington No. 1 (though that was our first stop).

Now, I knew enough (from my research, spreadsheet) to order "outside, brown and lean."

So that's what we ordered. And the bbq came, and it was good, and we were underwhelmed, both. We ate, we appreciated, but we both raised our eyebrows at each other, in a "We drove all the way to North Carolina and all we got was this stinkin' bbq?" kind of way.

But it was ok, and there would be more, and we would watch minor league baseball. After almost renting the honest-to-god scariest motel room I've ever seen (and I've stayed in some bad, scary places), we got a perfectly respectable room and decided to hit up one last bbq joint before heading up to Winston-Salem for some baseball.

And here is where I have to get down on my knees and thank the accidental, follow-the-wrong-map path that we took.

Here's the thing. Everyone has their own personal yardsticks for judging, well, anything, but in this case restaurants. Mine happens to be filth. Not rats running through the dining room, cockroaches in your food filth, but general dinginess, sloth, and disregard for decor. In my experience, the best, most surprising, most unexpected, most beautiful (cheapest, of course) food is found in places like this. Now, the opposite is not always true (just because it's filthy doesn't mean it's good), but a great restaurant that is soiled around the edges is usually where I'll find the best food.

So of course, when I read this unofficial review, I kicked up my heels:
A miniscule joint on the E. Center Street Extension called Lexington Style Trimmings. I stopped in and to my surprise had some of the best cue I have ever eaten. I opted for the sliced cue with slaw and hushpuppies -- all three were excellent. The puppies were unusually interesting, as they had a kind of moist, melting interior, and the onion-sugar contrast was especially sharp. A word of warning: the joint is seriously grubby (italics mine).

So that was where I chose to send us before our trip up north to see the Warthogs.

Except... the joint wasn't grubby at all, let alone seriously grubby. It's old, yes, faded around the edges (again with that image!?) and I would go so far as to say dingy. But unless I miss my guess, dingy is nothing more than shabby and run down, and by no means implies grubbiness. Like, yeah, the sink was chipped and cracked, but it looked plenty clean to me. The walls were ancient "paneled wood" but they were none the worse for that.

But I lose my thread. My thread is that, were it not for the description I happened across, specifically the warning of a serious grubbiness, this would not have been on my to-hit list. This one mention may well have been the only one I came across. So except for the fact that I have a prediliction for filth, we wouldn't have wound up there. But that's the amazing part. So it wasn't grubby, wasn't filthy, wasn't anything except a little dark and shabby. But had whoever reviewed it described it otherwise, we would never have found what is, based on a too-brief (or quite possibly not brief enough) bbq odyssey, the hands-down best bbq in NC.

(NC BBQ - never photogenic)

Oh, my little noodle.

2008-09-14T19:46:00.000-07:00

I love making pasta. I love it.

(I made my first pasta last night. Does it show?)

Lordy. I do love it. Pasta is the first flour-related item that has ever come together in my hands as if by instinct. I was a new little spider spinning my first web. I just knew what to do. This is a first.

When I was a kid, most everything in the house was a frozen/canned/boxed delight. (Full disclosure: Despite my "cook it all yer darned self from scratch" tendencies, I still love this kind of food. So much so that I avoid the frozen foods aisle when I happen to frequent a Loblaws.) Which means that I come with no acquired kitchen lore. Kids who never did a lick of cooking but whose moms or dads whizzed around the kitchen licking spoons and dipping fingers in sauces seem to have a grasp of basics that I do not have. Everything I've learned, I've learned by rote. With trials and errors, because I always think I've got a knack for cooking. But I don't.

So I was terribly intimidated by the thought of making pasta (sure it would wind up a flop of playdough sitting on my kitchen table, glaring back at me balefully). But I was on such a roll yesterday, I just kind of decided to give it a whirl. At nine o'clock at night. After having spent seven hours cooking kind of randomly.

And so. I read here and there, I tried to get my head around it. But the words didn't mean much.

Except.

Except when push came to shove, I knew exactly how much flour to add to my little ball. I just kept adding it and adding it and presto! It was right. It was just right.

My kneading leaves something to be desired--maybe a slightly higher table would help--but after a slightly protracted kneading time, things seemed to be working out beautifully.

Except.

Except when I was ready to move on to the rolling out the dough step, I realized that basically everyone out there was saying that you have to be some kind of masochist to roll out your dough by hand. They were basically saying I was crazy and I should just run out to a 24-hour pasta machine store, or throw in the towel then and there. I started to get really scared. But then I said, you jerk. You bought that lovely rolling pin and it's just sitting there, pining away. Look at it, so sad and lonely. It's never even been oiled. (I always suspected I should oil it or something, but never received confirmation until I was doing my research for the hand rolling. Thanks to Marcella Hazan, of course.)

So finally I just threw in the research towel, literally said, "The hell with it," rolled up my sleeves (figuratively here) and got to work.

It initially seemed like those naysayers were right. My little ball wanted to stay a ball. It certainly didn't want to stretch or pull or flatten or any of the things you want pasta to do.

But then, after a couple of minutes, it seemed like maybe it did. Like maybe there was a flat sheet of pasta trapped inside the hulk of dough. I felt like Rodin. "The pasta is already in the dough. I just let it out."

And then, magically, there was.

And it was beautiful.

(And also delicious.)

Things I've learned this month

2008-09-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

Don't cook an eye of round steak like you cooked up that gorgeous prime rib steak in your cast-iron skillet. It really is a different cut of meat. Listen when they tell you (marinate it, cook it slow like).
That said, do cook up a nice steak in your skillet. There is no shame in not having a bbq. And that pat of butter at the end, that you thought might be excess? It's not.
If you process a lovely batch of something (say, hypothetically speaking, pickled roasted red peppers) and then in the night (but within 24h) realize that while you followed the recipe, in a sense you didn't really follow the recipe, take those suckers out and repack and reprocess them immediately, because it will make you really sad to have to throw them out later because of botulism (or botulism paranoia) (who can tell the difference?).
Those peaches? Those peaches you can still taste, from that day you had to walk across the court to pick up your sister at the Hamiltons'? That were so intensely the essence of peach they had you turn around and beeline it straight to the kitchen not once but twice (for a total of three peaches) before you ever made it there? Those peaches? They're Blazing Stars. No doubt in my mind. Don't buy one basket. Buy three. They won't be around next week.
For some reason, you can't assume there will be bushels of Romas at the SLM. It is not the Jean-Talon market. Go early. Be there at 5am.
Despite having said this for the past five years, mean it next year when you say: Don't be a sap. Draw up a plot outline for the 3-day novel contest.

I seem to recall learning all kinds of other things this month, but they are not coming immediately to mind. One thing I can add is that if you are going to spend the day cooking (arancini and eggplant balls and roasted peppers (hot and sweet) and then a soup of roasted peppers and fresh sweet corn and other exciting things, and also another stuffed baked eggplanty thingy and some random peach cleanup dessert sauce and also now, incredibly, handmade, hand-rolled pasta?!?!) and you also happen to pretend to have a food blog, you might want to make sure that the batteries for your camera are charged.

Just sayin'.

I can't quit you, Baltimore.

2008-08-22T16:13:00.001-07:00

Having recently posted after an excruciating absence, I felt the need to scroll back through my previous posts to see exactly what I had said about our NC-BBQ adventure. As it turns out, I've said next to nothing, as I appear to be hung up on Baltimore.

That will clearly come as no surprise to those who know me.

In fact, I'm wondering if a short fall vacation to Baltimore might not be exactly what I need--but I digress.

I have basically repeated my love of Faidley's ad infinitum, and I think that cat, if you will, has been skinned as many ways as it can be.

I promise that my next post will be categorically below the Mason-Dixon line (as opposed to just straddling it).

A thousand words...and not a drop to drink?

2008-08-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

I hate to carry a camera and look like a tourist. I also hate to interrupt whatever it is that I'm experiencing by trying to capture it on film. So what that means is that when I'm parking on Paca (and the lovely Baltimorean flags me down to have me repark my car because the way that I've parked will get me a ticket (and give her free parking)!), I leave my camera in the car. Which is all fine and good until three months later when I want to tell you about Faidley's and would like to add an extra thousand or so words to whatever I'll spill here. And there's nary a lump to be found.

But that's fine. You don't need one. I'll just tell you what I think. Faidley's is fantastic. Now, you natives of the Chesapeake watershed, you may not agree with me. But I come from the (actually I don't know what it would be called in Canada, so I'll just go with the Yankee term) Midwest, and we don't really do crabcakes, or shouldn't, anyway. I've had the misfortune only twice in my life to bite into what I am forced to use air quotes to describe as crabcakes, and suffice it to say they are not something I need ever eat again.

But a crabcake from FAIDLEY'S...now that's another can of worms entirely. For those of you as ignorant as I was, let me assure you that what you want to order is a Jumbo Lump Crab Cake. There are other options, and they may well be delicious. I don't know, nor do I have any pressing need to learn. (There are also other eateries at Lexington Market. You can go there. I won't sulk. Just don't pass Faidley's by.)

And for the record, my very first raw oyster was eaten during this latest (though so far away now) trip to the market. It was fine, and certainly exhilarating, and I was lectured but good about how to eat it by a couple that makes a trip down to eat raw seafood at least once a week, but bof. I've got crabcakes on my mind.

Until next time...

(My lord! Whatever might those be?!?!)

You say aubergine, I say eggplant

2008-06-04T16:21:00.000-07:00

With a serious shout-out to Mallika (and indirectly to her inspiration, Bhags), I have to say that this baingan bharta (which I personally call bagnan bartha) recipe is genius. And beginner friendly!!!

I haven't cooked anything really since April or so, and decided to whip up a couple of delicious Indian dishes tonight. I always think that channa masala is quick (it is, don't worry), but when you make bagnan bartha AND channa masala AND brown rice (whole grains, whole grains) AND burn the leftover cumin-scented white basmati from last week, it does take about two hours.

So beginners: Don't try to do too much. One dish. One rice (leftover does me just fine) (except when I burn it) (I don't have a microwave and have to heat it up stovetop-style). You're laughing.

EASY BAGNAN BARTHA RECIPE (From Bhags, via Mallika)

2 large eggplants
1 regular onion, chopped (I like it really fine)
2 really very ripe tomatoes (the extra-cheap-because-they-look-decrepit kind are particularly good)
2 T yogurt
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 inch ginger, minced (or the stuff in a jar, maybe 1 heaping t)
1/2 t mustard seeds
1/2 t cumin seeds
1/2 t fenugreek seeds (methi seeds)
2 green chillies, chopped (not the really really small kind, the medium kind) (you can deseed them if you want, but they're really not that hot)
1 t turmeric
1 t cayenne
a handful of coriander, chopped
salt (be generous)

OVEN (or microwave oven) at 400 degrees.

Poke some holes in the eggplant with a fork, and bake it in the oven for around an hour. You can also microwave it, and it's way faster, but since I don't have one, I can't really guess at how long it would take you. Basically, you want to cook them till they're collapsing in on themselves and gettting all squooshy. Then take them out and let them cool. If you slice them in half at that point, they'll cool faster (obviously).

Meanwhile, back at the farm...

Heat some oil (I used canola), around 2 T. Get things nice and hot and add the seeds. They should pop after a bit, but if they don't, add the onions, garlic and ginger anyway. Let it all cook away till it gets nice and soft looking.

Add the tomatoes, yogurt, and powdered spices (turmeric and cayenne), lower the heat and simmer for about 5 min or so.

Meanwhile, hopefully the eggplant has cooled down enough for you to wrench its delicate flesh from the skin. Discard the skin and add the eggplant to the skillet, crank up the heat to high(ish) and stir. I smushed everything up with a potato masher, but you might not find that step necessary, depending on your own texture issues.

Add salt, to taste (don't be afraid). Stir in your coriander.

Serve with rice or flatbread. A side of channa masala is a nice complement...but you might want to make that tomorrow.

An adventure in pork, I mean, crabcakes

2008-06-02T18:06:00.002-07:00

You never know what it's going to be that leads you to that x-marks-the-spot. You might have a map, or think you have a map, and it's true. You might. But sometimes the instructions that do direct you where you've got to go are flat-out wrong, but to further complicate matters, if they weren't wrong, you wouldn't have got there. So where does that leave you?

Still with me?

We'll get to BBQ, but first I need to pay homage to Faidley's. Oh, Faidley's, and your award-winning lump crabcakes. Oh Faidley's, how you do me wrong. I've made the mistake, on only a very few occasions, of trying to replicate my experiences at Faidley's here in Toronto and who am I kidding? Who even puts crabcakes on the menu in the middle of the continent? To what end? To mock me, I guess.

And Faidley's? You ship, do you? Oh, frabjous day, you ship... but not to Canada? You only ship in the continental US, Alaska, Hawaii and Puerto Rico? Surely Toronto is easier to ship to than Anchorage. We're really not that exotic. It's just Canada. (And believe you me, I've considered having them ship a few lump cakes to my sister to be turned around and forwarded to me, but days-old (unfrozen) seafood hardly seems like the greatest idea I ever had.)

Omar, a wise man indeed, enjoying a crabcake from Faidley's.

We stopped briefly in Baltimore before starting our pork odyssey, and it sucker-punched me again. Damn, that's a good looking town. Again, Michael got pegged as Canadian upon leaving the car and despite wearing a beat-up Orioles cap. Again, we stopped for oysters and crabcakes. Yes, lump. (You didn't really need to ask, right?) For sides? I had the collards and slaw, Michael had potato salad and something equally wild and unpredictable. The sides are stellar, but the cakes will have you on your knees. I am the Queen of condiments, and this time around, didn't even bother accepting any tartar sauce. Completely unnecessary. I guarantee it.

After some kindly parking instructions and mockery (of us), we headed south...

Tantalizing...

2008-05-09T18:50:00.000-07:00

So, you've got your slow food and your slow travel, but I'd venture to guess that for most of us mere mortals, the latter is more of a fantasy than a reality. I myself have a mere fifteen vacation days each year, which doesn't exactly lend itself to renting a Tuscan villa and settling in for the winter.

And as for slow food...well, yeah. There's slow food, and then there's America. Personally, I am of the belief that one of the most important things in this world is balance. (Though even a cursory examination of our menus for the last three days of the trip would appear otherwise.) So in this case, balance would mean a melding of cultures. Are you with me? How does this sound: It takes 7-10 hours to pre-prepare the dish that was the focus of this trip. And after a half-day of slow roasting over a slow heat, it's then pulled together in a couple of minutes and served on a paper plate. With a styrofoam cupful of refillable sweet tea. Yeah, it's southern. Yeah, it's good. It was an NC-style BBQ odyssey:

Yeah, that's how they rock it, Lexington style.

It didn't start with BBQ, of course. Because (at least if you're me and your sister lives in Philly) the first stop is in Philadelphia for cheesesteaks and hoagies at Cosmi's deli. (I know. You've probably never heard of Cosmi's. Let's just keep this between you, me, and the rest of the internet community.)

Those other joints? With the neon and the screwy politics? Skip 'em. Go to Cosmi's. It's like a dep (corner store). With a deli in it. Order your sandwich on a half-seeded (their bread is from Sarcone's, except you don't have to deal with Sarcone's seemingly arbitrary hours or their equally arbitrary preparation conventions like, "no, even though we've been open for an hour and a half and all we serve is sandwiches, our breaded chicken cutlets aren't ready, so you can't have a chicken parm hoagie").

NON-SEQUITUR

I like to pass. For local. I don't, of course, I pass for Canadian, but I like to try, wherever I am, to give the impression (however fleeting) that I am fully of the place. Paris? My proudest moment, actually being mistaken for a Parisian. Mexico City? I think I kind of look Mexican. Philly? Well, so visiting Philly over the years, I've worked hard to master the art of tossing off a curt order of 'One American with.'

(Extra non-sequitur: Picture me at my most conflicted. I am in an excruciatingly long line at Jim's (don't ask) and, approaching the order point, I start eyeing the lovely, muscle-bound, tattooed, dreadlocked cook. Just for kicks. But the view is nice. So I keep looking, but meanwhile, I'm very, very focused on my order: One American. With. One American. With. Remember, passing is key. I'm going to pass for a Philadelphian if it kills me. Until...one of the two ladies in front of me screws up her order. She's from NYC and doesn't know any better. So the cook leans over, holds up the line, rests his hand on the counter, looks at them real mean and growls, "Baby, you got to tell me what you want."

I almost died. I collapsed back against the railing. His greasy apron. That knife. The steam rising from the grill and his patient-impatient look. I wanted him to say the same to me. Lean over the counter, exhausted with these useless customers who don't know how to order a cheesesteak, but slow down the line, spend an extra minute looking into my eyes so I can tell him what I want.

But the call was stronger. The call to pass. So I ordered: One American. With.

The line never stumbled.)

END OF NON-SEQUITUR

It's more complicated at Cosmi's (I claim) in part due to the fact that they're actually friendly (incidentally, not at all a factor in my evaluation of their food, merely a bonus) and that throws me off. In addition, unlike the more traditional haunts, at Cosmi's, unless you have a jar in the fridge at home, you order your hot peppers (long hots) on your sandwich. I blame the long hots. Ultimately, it matters very little whose fault it is (though, as mentioned, I blame the long hots). The fact of the matter is that my orders at Cosmi's have been consistently wrong for the past year and a half. (Considering the timing, if you won't accept my long-hot defence, blame my beau.)

But back to my point. Yes, my first order at Cosmi's this past trip was also screwed up. Except. Except.

Did they screw it up and how. Would I ever--ever in a million years?--ever order a cheesesteak "American with"..."with cheese whiz"??? (I actually don't even know if that's how you would order it.)

Let it be said that I am, on principle, neither opposed to nor in favour of cheese whiz. My first cheesesteak (ordered as per the instructions of a real live Philadelphian of otherwise impeccable gustatory taste) (if you'll allow that awkward phrasing), was actually a "Pizzasteak, whiz, with." (Which, if memory serves, I actually also screwed up--proving only that I have come full circle in my ineptitude--ordering a "Cheesesteak, whiz, with."). This steak failed to impress, and I never returned to whiz. Until now.

My ordering error, or perhaps their scrutiny of my innermost desires, led to a magical discovery. If you decide to order yours simply "American with" or even "Provolone with" I won't blame you. But open your heart. Open your mouth. Give "American with, with whiz" a try. (Or maybe be more specific when you order. Don't listen to me. I don't know how to order.)

I've now written hundreds of words, and we haven't left Cosmis's, let alone even gotten to Baltimore yet! Gak!

A clue....

2008-05-06T15:35:00.000-07:00

I've been vanished for a long while, and I know my legions of fans have been chomping at the bit to find out what gives. Well, I was just ordinary busy for a while, but then I left on an adventure. This photo is a clue to keep you tantalized.

Is it working?

Three sprouts already!!!

2008-03-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

Two teeny sprouts. In fact, here. Wait:

Mustard greens! I'll make sarsoon ka saag!!!!

I have no idea what else to do with them, but you can bet I'll figure something out.

Damn, that's good.

2008-03-24T15:15:00.000-07:00

What's so good? Fresh pasta with homemade Italian sausage and dandelion greens, with "aged" ricotta (whatever that is).

My version wasn't quite as good as the version I had at a restaurant which shall remain nameless (nameless because it was the most ridiculously awful service I have ever had the misfortune to experience and don't even feel like uttering their name) but whose version served as inspiration. That lunch was divine.

Since I knew I probably wouldn't go back (because of the really appallingly bad service), and since dandelions have been popping up left, right and centre, I felt it was my duty to learn to replicate that dish my own self.

So today, though I had a thousand and one things to do (and no excuse to cook since I have a fridge full of odds and ends), I impulsively hopped off the subway at Pape, dreaming of Masellis. I wasn't sure what I needed to get, but I was sure I'd find something.

Find something I did. A gorgeous bunch of dandelion greens (dandelion purples is more like it). So I hightailed it over to the butcher, grabbed their (to my memory) so-so "medium" Italian sausages (whatever that means) (they do have fennel seeds, so I'm not complaining) and some Crotonese, and sped home. (Incidentally, the sausages were better than I remembered.)

Short pasta with dandelion greens and a hint of garlic and Italian sausage and cheese. (I used the aforementioned Crotonese with some most excellent Romano imported from Windsor, not the nameless restaurant's "aged ricotta." Whatever that means.)

Damn.

Garden, garden, garden, garden, garden!

2008-03-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

I've got a garden! One plot. Maybe two!!!!

Breathe.

I fell in love with my first community garden plot in Montreal, which I had for three more or less successful years. Montreal's community garden system is outstanding. It's run municipally, so there is a centralized database of all of the gardens that indicates whether or not there are plots available. If the garden nearest you is full, you can put your name on a list or sign up for the next most suitable garden. I lucked out and got a spot right across the street from my house.

Fast forward to Quebec City. The first year, I couldn't even find a garden. I did by the second year, and had an even less successful garden (yes, the season really is that much shorter in QC). It was still fun, and while I didn't successfully grow more than a dozen beefsteaks (what was I thinking?) I did have a bumper crop of cherry tomatoes that (picked while green, since I was moving to Toronto) managed to gradually ripen and inspire me to make neverending batches of cherry tomato risotto.

Skip a year. Finally find this plot. Looks good, just off the Don Valley, could conceivably make a nice extra-long bike ride home with a little garden-time in between. Would I get a plot?

(The suspense was killing me.)

Yes, I've got a plot. Maybe two. I might not need two. We'll see. I couldn't exactly check out the garden, seeing as how there are still several feet of snow on the ground and the low-hanging skies were spitting a nasty spray of rain and freezing rain down on my face, but it looks amazing. It's on the gentle slope running down into the valley and is gloriously exposed (perhaps even dangerously exposed, knowing me and my feckless ways with watering) to the sun. Damn, baby. I've got to get some seeds going!

Let's hear it for the East York Community Garden!!

Run, don't walk, to the nearest Minneola Tangelo

2008-03-14T19:38:00.000-07:00

I don't even particularly like oranges. Clementines, of course. And I've come around, fiercely, to grapefruits. But that's it. So when Michael offered me a handful of 'orange' segments (and the orange was an oddly deep reddish hue), I only took them to be polite.

But damn, baby. As the University of Florida IFAS extension says, "The fruit is quite handsome and a genuine pleasure to eat." And they're right.

I mean, when was the last time you ran to the internet to look up a fruit by its label number?

Minneola Tangelo. It tastes even better than it sounds.

Isn't she a shiny pretty little thing?

2008-03-10T19:06:00.001-07:00

I haven't cooked anything in days, unless you count toasting a Fairmount bagel, adding Liberté cream cheese and smoked salmon. Yes, I've been eating in Montreal and, while the cancellation of the Symphonie Portuaire (Port Symphony) did bring a tear to my eye, I think the food made up for it.

My freezer is full of Bombay Mahal.

I have a brand new 7-Q stand mixer to play with. Life is good.

Porc au lait

2008-02-26T17:51:00.000-08:00

Ok, so it's not much of a title, but it is a hell of a dish. I know it doesn't exactly fit in with my schtik, but this is easily the most impressive and wildly popular dish I've ever made. I've made it five times in the past year, including twice over the past two weeks, and it is on the schedule in the near future.

Why so much pork braised in milk, you ask? The answer is simple. It rocks, it takes no preparation time, it cooks while you're chilling (or doing other things entirely), and it really is dead easy.

One caveat: It is interminably long to make. The problem isn't so much with the time (I'm warning you of that going in), but more with the fragrance. I guarantee that you'll find it hard to leave it in the oven long enough. Don't do it! Leave it in!!! It's worth it.

So, Mr. Meathenge's recipe is all you need, but it's so simple, I'll lay it out for you here.

Ok. Don't do this on a weeknight. Take the time, do it right, invite folks over, have a couple of bottles on ice.

Ingredients:

3-4 lb pork - the last two times I used butt, but I used something else the other times. Meathenge uses sirloin. Just don't use something too lean.
Several cloves of garlic (I used 7 this time)
Butter - a generous pat (really generous)
Milk - Homo (that's short for homogenized, for you 'mericans)
s&p

What to do? It is advised that you remove the pork from the fridge to take off the chill, but if you didn't, it would still turn out.
I washed it and dried it. At least dry it. It has to be dry.
Rub it in some s&p. I use a lot of freshly ground p and highly recommend doing so.
Heat butter (lots) over medium to medium-high, depending on your stove, in an oven-proof pan big enough to fit the pork and with a lid. (I have one enameled cast iron casserole and another enameled steel, both of which work just fine.) Throw in the pork DON'T STIR IT AROUND and let it sit for a few minutes (at least five+++). Oh, and pre-heat the oven to around 325. Proceed to brown the other sides of the pork. You're already regretting that this meal will take four or five hours to prepare. Throw in the garlic at any point now. The pork all seared? Good and seared? Good.
Ok, I take it out and add a little milk and scrape the bottom of the pan. Some people call this deglazing. Or maybe deglazing has to be with an acid, I don't know, but you can call this deglazing too. I do.
So you've scraped up the good bits and mixed them in with the milk? Put the pork back in and fill up the pot about half way up the pork. Lid that sucker and throw her in the oven.

Proceed to try to forget about it for an hour or so. Then investigate. Take it out. Stir the milk. I like to turn the pork (but have no idea if this is a help or a hindrance). Re-lid it. Put it back in.

Keep doing this. If the liquid isn't reducing fast enough, take off the lid. It'll be done when the meat is falling off the meat.

That's plenty good, but there'll be some delicious mess at the bottom of the pan. Strain out the fat and keep the curdy stuff. Mix it up with a fork and put a dollop on your pork. That broken sauce is brutti ma buoni. Eat it up.

Mis frijoles

2008-02-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

This is the very first recipe I ever invented, ever. And I basically invented it from nothing, based on nothing, and it somehow came together. This isn't to say that it wasn't already a recipe in someone else's repertoire, mind you. Just that I am, and always have been, inordinately proud of this recipe. These are my beans, dammit. And I love them.

[I am now so far advanced that I generally make them with dried beans, but if you're to the point that you use dried beans yourself, you'll also be able to (easily) convert these proportions.]

[That said, the main reason, other than flavour, that these beans are so amazing is that they whip up in no time. But that's assuming you're cool with opening a can.]

Check it out:
1 can beans, drained (black, pinto, navy...basically anything but garbonzos, I would think)
1 small onion, chopped (finely)
1-3 cloves garlic, minced (pressed, if you so desire)
2 t cumin
1 t oregano
...and the kicker: chipotles (chopped) to taste (start with one and work up, unless you already know that will be too wimpy for you) (the canned kind, in adobo) (this ingredient is not to be omitted on penalty of excommunication or something worse) (my mom even likes them and she doesn't eat anything remotely spicy) (except Worcestershire sauce)

Plus water

Honestly, this couldn't be much easier. Start to fry the onion, and add the garlic when it starts to go translucent. Sound too precise? You can add them at the same time, or omit the garlic, it doesn't matter. Then, when they start looking a little cooked (read: not black, just clearish to caramelish) add the spices and the chipotles. Today, you can generally find chipotles in the grocery store near the Old El Paso section. If you're feeling really lazy (as I often am), you can just pour in a big slurp of the chipotle salsa--the kind that comes in a tall skinny jar. I use about a third of a jar (the really skinny jars).

Where were we? Ok, you've got the garlic and onion, the spices and chipotles, now add the beans. Stir it all up. Then add about a cup or so of water. Bring it to a boil, reduce the heat and let it simmer. Keep doing this for as long as you want. I mean, you can keep adding water, the beans will just get more and more infused with the nice slow burn you've got there, and the starch will work its way out, and they'll get mushier and mushier (you can also mush them with a potato masher if you want, or leave them whole if you happen to buy a particularly integral brand such as P.C.). If you only add the cup or so of water and let it simmer down, that'll be good, too.

How to serve them? With rice, of course. Got tortillas? Go nuts. Add jalapenos (from a jar, hence no prep). Add cheese (I personally have a horror of the concept of pre-grated cheese, but you certainly could). If you're feeling really fancy you could top it with cilantro, but really only buy a bunch if you're planning on using the rest. You could chop some up and add it to the beans near the end of the simmering. I've done it. It's good. As an extra-special treat, go avocado and lime. You won't regret it.

Oh. And salsa, of course. My preferred brand is Herdez' Salsa Casera (hot, but it also comes in mild and medium). If you want to serve the beans with eggs (preferably between two corn tortillas), I prefer La Costena's Salsa Verde.

So there you have it. Dinner (for one) and breakfast (or lunch) the next day.

Mis frijoles sabrosos. Que rico! (My keyboard is French, and I can't figure out how to set up an upsidedown exclamation mark. Sorry.)

New England Corn Chowder - from Auntie Betsy

2008-02-18T15:01:00.000-08:00

The reason why you need this recipe in your repertoire is because:
a) You can make it entirely with ingredients you should always have on hand. Keep some bacon in the freezer if you don't go through it fast enough, or just as a backup. I always do. The other stuff is either pantry staples, dairy staples or canned.
b) It is damned good.

Looking over this recipe, I have to admit that I can't remember making it exactly as written, but must have, because I used to be (*still am*) (*some of the time*) a stickler for by-the-book-recipe-following. I am going to add one minor change of my own (in parentheses). Go as crazy as you want. I bet it would be good with red peppers, or heck, what if you threw in some kind of beans? I probably never will, being kind of a purist (whatever that means) when it comes to corn chowder, but please yourselves.

The recipe:

4 slices bacon
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
2 cups diced, peeled potatoes (I don't peel)
1 17-oz can creamed corn
(1 whatever-sized can corn niblets, drained)
2 cups milk
1 T butter

I'm not actually going to copy the recipe as written, because having read the whole thing, I think it's unnecessarily complicated, so here's my simplified version.

Bring a pot of water to a boil, add the potatoes and simmer until soft. DRAIN. Meanwhile, fry the bacon. Remove from heat and crumble (when it cools) or chop. Sauté the onions in the bacon fat. (Mmmm.) Drain off some fat if you feel like feeling healthy or if there is really an obscene amount.

Add the potatoes to the onions, along with the creamed corn and corn and milk, simmer five minutes more, crumble in bacon and serve.

(This has been edited for clarity and taste.)

There is absolutely no reason why you couldn't make this with frozen (or, gasp, fresh!) corn. What do you keep on hand? Use that. I mean, as a substitute for the niblets, of course. You can't substitute anything for creamed corn. And the recipe I have says that it's for a crockpot, but I can't actually see any good reason to make it in a crockpot. So don't. Start to finish, it's only about, what, forty minutes max. Absolute max. But you can hold off on it, it'll be fine. Think of it as a great, easy, delicious weekday meal. Grab a baguette from the bakery and whip up a green salad if you don't really believe that corn is a vegetable.

Halve the pasta, double the veggies

2008-02-18T13:42:00.000-08:00

This is my new way. For the classic rapini and shells, for example, I'd take an embarrassment of garlic, a head of rapini and a package of pasta. But I have seen the error of my ways. Forget the old school proportions. Take a half package of pasta and TWO heads of rapini. Not only will it be better for you, I guarandamntee that it will be more delicious, too. You may be increasing your prep time by a third, but you won't regret it.

All that to say that my proportions for this:

were perfect. Well, actually it was the previous version that was perfect, but this was close. Sitting on the subway trying to visualize my cupboards made me realize that aside from a grumpy sweet potato and dried legumes, I didn't have much. (Not having much meaning, of course, having five packages of pasta of varying sizes.) Later in the day, I did a search for something like "sweet potatoes" "pasta" and Google generously brought me to this recipe for penne with oven roasted sweet potatoes, pecans, and goat cheese.

And while I didn't have everything, I certainly had the key ingredients. The recipe's author highly recommended including the optional green beans. I thought she was crazy, but decided (after spotting a special on green beans at a stellar grocery store on the Danforth) that she was probably right, or at least not wrong, and anyway, I'm trying to add more vegetables to my diet, right?

It was amazing. I highly recommend it. I will not, however, include it on my list of simple recipes, just because there is an extra step that would have put me off in my previous incarnation. (Yes, Catherine, Michael and Scott, I will be posting those other recipes I promised.

What's up with juniper berries?

2008-02-11T08:58:00.001-08:00

My posting just got swallowed up, but what I wanted to say was what's up with juniper berries?

I had never heard of them prior to last week, when they suddenly seemed to be popping up in every single recipe I looked at. I might have a vague memory of their appearance in my old British mystery novels, but that's my best guess.

What is up with juniper berries?

Are they the latest ingredient du jour?

Do they matter?

I'm so tough.

2008-02-10T19:13:00.001-08:00

Yeah, this is a food post, but I just want to brag about how I just delivered a 6,800 word translation--that I only started on Friday night! And found time to celebrate my baby's birthday with some hard-drinking friends over pizza and five-pin bowling and the ever-lovely Linnsmore Tavern. Just look at those muscles. Plus I went to Yoga today. And made this bizarre dish...

When I started my cooking odyssey (bearing in mind that I was raised on Dainty Rice (yes, that's prepared rice in a can in a box that nobody believes exists) (check it out--I dare you: rice in a can, frozen peas and Mickey D's), all I could think of to eat were quasi-Mexican dishes. Nothing actually Mexican, but Mexican inflected lets say. That went on for some time. But then I grew increasingly obsessed with my beloved Bombay Mahal, and decided, with my heart in my throat, to try to start recreating their dishes in my kitchen.

God. It's intimidating. Prior to my foray into the cuisine of the subcontinent, my spice rack probably contained: Basil, oregano, cumin, cayenne, mace (I seemed to continually be buying mace, which was more expensive than really seemed justified to me at the time) and maybe one or two other mystery spices. I knew this wasn't going to cut it, and ventured up to Jean-Talon where I became a regular at the various deps that sold everything I could possibly need to wade thigh-high into Indian cooking...AND they knew alternate names for things.

"It says I need dhania, but I don't see it anywhere. It's not on the shelf."

"Sure it is, it's just cumin. It's right here."

And the man working the cash bolts over, pushes my new buddy aside and whispers, "He doesn't know what he's talking about. Here."

And shoves a packet into my hand. It turns out to be coriander. He throws in my green chilies for free.

And thus began my love of cooking Indian food in a halfway, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, kind of way.

Which has nothing to do with my post. That's just mean to inspire those of you who might be afraid to dive into a new cuisine if you don't speak the language and don't understand the spices and haven't the foggiest notion of where to go to find out. I happen to live in a place where this isn't a problem, not even remotely, but you can usually get by just fine in one way or another. Don't be scared.

Because here's the thing. What I'm scared of at this point is Thai food. The ingredient lists are long and intimidating (much like Indian recipes used to be to me) and what's worse, when I've tried to use them, I've wound up more often than not with an inedible mass. Think lemongrass. If you don't know what to do with lemongrass, you might well wreck your best knife and make a vaguely edible soup with hard, chewy hunks of wood in it. That would be lemongrass.

And yet I'm somehow compelled to keep buying Thai ingredients. And let them accumulate on my shelves. So today I said, "To hell with that!" And decided to make a soup.

Of course I didn't jump in blind. I looked around, I thought of Thai dishes I had eaten. And I made a soup that, while not exactly a classic, is enjoyable enough, and certainly something that can be improved upon.

And while not everyone might think I need a schtik, I kind of feel like this could be my calling. So here goes:

1 squash. Any kind. Don't be scared. Butternut is easy, but any winter squash will do. Hell, a can of pumpkin (not spiced) would work if you don't feel like dealing with squash, but since the whole idea here is getting us into the kitchen, I say go for the squash. I paid $0.69/lb for this one.
1 can coconut milk. You really can find this in any grocery store, I don't care where you are. Maybe not in Utah, but who can say?
1 cup red lentils. Again, anything will do, but those little orange guys kind of go with the colour of the squash, plus they cook so darned fast that you really have no excuse for not keeping some around. Are you adding to your pantry list?
1 can Thai curry paste. I used green. I also used the whole can. My soup is quite spicy. Really very quite spicy. You don't need to use nearly as much as I did--I was just trying to keep things simple (for my own self).

Seriously folks, that's it.

What I did? I roasted the squash, because I have no idea who these people are that chop it and peel it. I don't have that kind of time. Cut it in half down the middle, put it face down in the oven (better yet, the toaster oven). Scoop out the seeds and strings. (Yes, you should totally destring and wash the seeds and bake them with oil and salt and pepper and any other spices you want, but I'm not going to make you do it if you don't want to.) Put it on foil, because when the starches come out, it'll make a sweet goo all over your pan. No foil? That's fine. Don't let that stop you from making this recipe. I just recommend keeping some around. Like most of my other ingredients, it doesn't go bad.

Right. So the temperature doesn't matter. 350? That'll take a little longer. 425? A little less time. I add a little water in the pan for some reason, maybe I read it someplace, but it doesn't matter. You can butter your pan if you want to, but again, you don't have to. All that will happen if you don't is the squash might stick to the foil/bottom of the pan a little more. It doesn't matter.

So the squash is cooking. In the meantime, I'm furiously revising my translation to try to finish things in time to go to Ann (going to Ann means going to Sunday afternoon yoga at the Yoga Sanctuary, because truly, it's all about Ann--she's amazing).

After the squash had been in there for some time, I put on a pan of water to boil. Actually, I had some leftover chicken stock from god knows what, so I used that, but water is more than fine. How much? God. Say three cups. It doesn't matter. I mean, not like ten gallons or anything, but anything in the ballpark is fine.

Water boils? Add lentils. You're supposed to pick them over for rocks, and I actually did this time, but you do what you want. A good way is to spread them out on a plate or a tray or something so you can really see them. I've also sometimes read that you're supposed to rinse them, but unlike with rice (I am a strict rice-rinsing and soaking nazi), I am completely inconsistent here.

So you've got the water boiling with the lentils. Stir it around a bit, or the lentils might stick a little to the bottom. No worries, nothing is going to go horrifically wrong. You'll see them pouff up in size eventually. If you taste them then, you'll see that they're fine to eat. I added a whole can of coconut milk at that point, simply because I knew that if I put half of the can in the fridge, even with the best of intentions, it would go green and moldy.

So, you've got your lentil water mixture, plus coconut milk, plus (whoo!) a can of chili paste. This, I don't know how available it is. I would assume somewhat, but also somewhat less than coconut milk. Look around. Ask around. How amazing is that? A whole can of delicious spicy stuff that means that you don't even have to think! It's all done for you! I call that gorgeous. I have the red stuff too, so if you find that, feel free to use it. I just happened to grab the green.

So that's all mixed into the pot, and bubbling away merrily. You can reduce the heat at this point (not to low, say med-low). The squash might be done. Check and see. Does it squoosh? Everywhere? (Mine didn't. I thought it was done, but the long neck-like part of the bigger half (of course I don't cut mine evenly either) was hard as a rock inside. It's fine. You can recover from that.) I recommend making sure it's done, but if it's not, do like I did. Scoop out whatever is done (soft and squishy) and lob it into the soup. The bits that don't seem to want to come off easily? Throw them back in the oven/toaster oven. They'll be ready in ten or so.

When you've succeeded in adding all of the squash to the pot, get out your hand blender. Don't have one? Got a blender? Use that. A food processor? That'll work too. Potato masher? You'll wind up with something less creamy, but just call it "Rustic Thai" and everyone will think it's great.

People jazz up their recipes with all kinds of stuff. Cilantro. Fish sauce. (Admission: I have a bottle of squid brand fish sauce that seems to have expired in 2006 but that was never opened--did I mention that I have a terror of preparing Thai food?--so I opened it today and threw some in. I have no idea what difference it made, if any. I would guess not much.) Chillies. Ginger. Garlic. Onions. That sort of thing. If you have some on hand, why not toss some in? Not too much. Be gentle. Think balance. Think moderation. It'll be great.

For the record, none of these ingredients goes bad (within reason I mean).
Dry lentils - personally have kept them on hand for years.
Coconut milk - ditto
Curry paste in a can - ditto
Squash - the only one of these that can really expire; it's happened to me once. I had a squash in a too-warm kitchen for like six months. Anything less than that and you're probably fine.

Concept Blog

2008-02-04T16:44:00.000-08:00

When I come to think about it, the blogs that I read tend to, in some way, large or small, have a concept. A premise. Like, I don't know, great presentation. Great photographs. Not eating out. Quick and Indian (Mallika, I miss you!). Meat. Southwestern cuisine. Trying new things. You get the idea.

And of course, I have no concept. I am a girl who rarely has a schtick and, if I do, it generally tends to fail. But today I realized what my schtick will be (and whether I'll stick with my schtick). Easy, delicious food for people who really don't know how to cook. I don't mean elaborate meals whose construction requires three pots, 17 ingredients and a knowledge of deglazing. I mean if you're someone who likes to eat delicious stuff, but maybe only has four spices in your spicerack (and they came with), one knife, one pot, and a can of beans in the pantry, and are kind of afraid to walk into a dep and come face to face with your own vast ignorance of Pakistani cooking, say, this could be for you.

This ties into (and was probably inspired by) my cabbage post. That is a perfect dish for someone who is afraid. You can't screw it up. And the ingredients? Ok, buy a cabbage (I have the idea that they last basically forever, so if you can't get to it sooner than later, later than sooner will be fine) (just leave it in the crisper, wrapped in plastic). So you've bought your cabbage? Every single other ingredient should be something you should have on hand. If you don't, start stocking your pantry/fridge now, with stuff that keeps for a really long time:

Some basic items:
Olive oil (pantry)
Onions (pantry/shelf/cupboard)
Garlic (pantry/shelf/cupboard)
Vinegar (pantry) (you should have at least two or three kinds, but you can get small bottles, they'll only cost a couple bucks) (say, balsamic, white, red wine)
Stock (pantry) (bouillon cubes or cans or boxes) (I'd say go whole hog and get chicken, beef and veggie)
Parmesan cheese (fridge) (get good stuff, from your deli counter - I usually get some in a block, that I grate myself, but I also get some grated, so it's already done and I don't have to bother to whip out a grater and bloody my knuckles when I just want some pasta)
Butter (fridge) (and counter)
[Um, and as the ever-lovely Veever pointed out, you also need to have, you know, rice. Risotto was called for, and excellent, but I imagine you could substitute with whatever you've got on hand. I'm going to make it with a mixed-bag of crazy rice varieties. I'll report back.]

Ok. Not only are these all things you should have in your kitchen at all times (I'll add to the list in future posts), but they are all you need for the cabbage. You can do it. Check out the cabbage post. Don't use red cabbage (use Savoy, the darker green, crinkly kind, or regular green). But if you get red by mistake? No worries. It'll just be uglier, but kind of a pleasant surprise.

Scaredy -cat

2008-02-03T17:14:00.000-08:00

So, my baby's birthday just happens to fall on Chinese New Year's Eve, and I had no ideas when it came to gifts. Until of course I realized that it was New Year's Eve, at which point I suggested to him that it might be fun to go to a really, really, really, really nice Chinese restaurant to celebrate his birthday. So really nice that he won't get a present, since this will really be a supreme deluxe splurge. Like the kind of fancy I've never really even considered going.

So how escared am I? (Escared in a thrilled and excited way, I mean.) I want to make sure that we eat as much amazingly delicious food as possible, so I printed off all of the prix fixe menus we could order (as a party of two) and also printed the entire à la carte menu, and also printed the à la carte Chinese New Years' menu. Then I went through and made a mark beside everything I was interested in, and made my baby do the same. Then we went over it together to try and see if we should order a prix fixe (we shouldn't) and if not, what we would be ordering. (This is very atypical behaviour for me.)

It's terrifically thrilling. And nerve-wracking. So much so that I didn't find time to make the roast chicken that I was so psyched to make this weekend, or participate in some blogging event that involved a rutabaga that I was also really psyched about.

I've got a one-track mind right now. In fact, I'm going to go and peruse the menu one more time...

(The restaurant is Lai Wah Heen, in case any one of my four readers has any suggestions.)

Cabbage is cool

2008-02-03T16:54:00.000-08:00

I honestly had no idea, prior to my one and only experiment with cabbage (see Molly Stevens' best-ever braised cabbage) how dirt cheap it was. It seems ridiculous to me that such a beautiful, dense, round vegetable (in so very many hues!) could possible cost like a buck. A cabbage weights about two pounds! Shouldn't it cost more than that!?

Apparently not. I guess that's just the way it goes.

Anyway, I've gone and made another cabbage recipe (it's kind of a two-for-one, actually), and damn, baby, but it's good. So one of the food bloggers I have come to adore (come to think of it, I'll have to add her blog to my roll) is Luisa of the Wednesday Chef. In addition to being gorgeous and exotic, she's running two for two on recipe successes so far.

She also appears to have a thing for cabbages.

So this recipe that I followed actually seems to be two. I wasn't so very wowed by the first one (perhaps being such a cabbage neophyte) and didn't actually even really eat it, since the visions I had dancing in my head of the second part were what was really prodding me on.

And man, was it worth it. Mine was less photogenic than hers (which isn't that photogenic at all), because I went and bought two (TWO!) heads of cabbage, one red and one green. So I wanted to use half of each. And did. And so my dish is grey, and yet still managed to blow my mind, which seems explanation enough of how utterly delicious it is.

It's creamy and rich and cabbagey. This seems almost impossible to me, since I don't necessarily associate cabbages with anything at all, let alone creaminess. But damn, baby. Damn, baby. I think I'm going to whip up another batch just as soon as this one is done.

Plus, Luisa attributes the recipe to Marcella Hazen, who appears to be an icon whose name has not entered my lexicon. I will be making her acquaintance.

Anyway, in a nutshell, this is the recipe.

Part un:

1 cabbage, finely chopped (or not so finely, I suppose)
1 onion, chopped (to your own preference)
Olive oil (Luisa says 1/4 cup, but I might have used less)
Garlic (I always err on the side of excess with garlic, so I added three large cloves, minced)
s, p, wine vinegar (I misread this and used white vinegar - might be why my original recipe was so boring?)

So basically sauté the aromatics in the oil, add the cabbage, toss, add the s, p and vinegar. Lower heat to medium and cover, 1.5 hours or so. This is the dish I didn't eat, but you might really like it, so go nuts.

Part deux:

Take that other batch out of the fridge
Heat some beef stock (Luisa has you dilute it if it's store-bought, but I don't know how necessary that is. See for yourself.)
Add the cabbage.

When it starts bubbling, add 2/3 CUP ARBORIO RICE. (I used this kind, but you know, basically any kind would work, I imagine. I've got some fancy-ass mixed rice thingy that I'll try next time. I'll report back.)
Let this simmer steadily until the rice is done. Mine took about 15 min.

Now for the kicker (and the reason why this recipe rules). Add 2 TBSP BUTTER and a THIRD OF A CUP OF PARMESAN (or some delicious, hard, Italian cheese). Mix this in. Add s and p, as needed. Then dish it out, let it rest a minute, and dig in.

You'll thank me.

Such a good idea at the time

2008-01-27T16:12:00.000-08:00

If you had seen these photos, you would have agreed with us (us being two ex-pat pseudo Montrealers living in Toronto on a poutine quest that has been languishing for quite some time). With winter arriving here with a vengeance (here being Canada), it somehow became that much less appealing to venture into lands unknown in search of poutine that was almost certainly bound to be disappointing. Our quest was back-burnering until I saw Mrs. Marv's post. She (no poutine aficionado let it be said) whipped up a picture perfect poutine that set our minds a-working. If Mrs. Marv (a poutine virgin) could fashion a poutine of the gods, we could certainly pull off something approaching a 2 am Ashton special.

Or not.

The day started with a quick run-down of the ingredient list, and we set off to remedy what we were lacking. Aviva insisted that we check out her Saturday-only pupuseria, and thank god we did, because that was the culinary high point of the day. I would link to it if I knew its name (Latin Grocery maybe?). In any case, if you're in the Bloor/Ossington area on a Saturday, definitely stop in for a couple of pups. Aviva loved the tamale (it was good), but the pups were amazing. A day-saver.

In any case, we stocked up on what we were missing at her local grocer, completely forgetting the key ingredient on our first run-through: Potatoes. Luckily, upon our return, we learned that Carlos and Alicia are well-versed in deep-frying techniques (and in potatoes). They pointed us in the right direction. (Of course, since we didn't end up deep frying anything, who can really say if the potatoes we ultimately purchased would, in fact, have been suited to frying. For another day.) In all: One outing, four stops (including chicken stock at the bulk joint).

And so to home to await the pups. (When we had tried to order our pupusas, the owner gestured towards the back of the dep (it's really more of a corner store than a restaurant) and indicated the masses of people hovering at and around the three tables-for-two. They had all placed orders and were well ahead of us. Luckily, Aviva lives close by, so a return run for pickup wasn't a problem.) When the time came, I headed out to pick up the pups plus a tamale. At that point we hadn't yet become aware of everything we were lacking.

Cut forward several hours.

We got things started, and our spirits were high. By the time we had prepped our potatoes (only to realize that the Meijer's special potato fry-cutter I had imported for Veever was a piece of junk), we realized that we were a little low on oil. (Yes, we had considered that possibility on our previous purchasing venture, but decided that we were all to the good and that we surely had enough oil to deep fry a couple (four--four?--though I suppose it's possible that portion sizes hors-Québec are slightly different than what we're used to) (we went with six) of potatoes.)

So we're standing there with two half-drained 1L containers of oil - canola and safflower (sunflower?). It seemed like a good idea to combine them.

Seemed like.

So we did. But despite our frankensteinesque recombinant oil, we were still a far cry from deep-frying depths. So Veever ran out to pick up some more bastard oil (of unknown origins) and we added it to the pot.

At this point, one thing we were pretty sure of, though, was that we were painfully ill-equipped to guesstimate the temperature of our oil. Our initial recipe had us starting at 325, then cranking it to 350. It seemed difficult to imagine how we might approach these temperatures by eye-balling oil (which, you may have noticed, always looks pretty much the same, which is one of the reasons grotesque restaurant kitchen accidents like hands-plunging-into-hot-oil happen so often), so Aviva ran out to buy a candy thermometer. (Yes, I have one.) (Yes, I considered bringing it.) (No, I did not bring it.)

She came back with a cutting-edge piece of machinery, though. It's amazing. It might actually force us to make candy.

Now, the pan really did appear to have been dried properly, but the oil kept heaving and bubbling. Aviva has basically never deep-fried anything, as it turns out, but I myself have no small love of the fried, and am known to deep fry at the slightest opportunity (for which reason I do not and will not own a deep fryer).

But this oil. It was a menace. It kept bubbling sporadically. Sporadically but viciously. When it bubbled, it exploded. (Did I mention Aviva has a small baby?) After it attempted several times to maim or kill us, I decided to stir it, thinking that any remaining dampness at the bottom of the pot would be the cause of our problems and of the erratic behaviour of the oil. So I took the candy thermometer and give it a big (but gentle stir).

The goddamned thing exploded. By that point, we were all terrified. We decided that the problem had to be the oil admixture, so I went out to get more to replace what was in the pot. A couple of stops later, I returned with a 3L container of corn oil. (Corn oil? I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine.)

It turns out that, in the interim, Aviva had discovered that our sauce brun was, as she so succinctly put it, "vile." I headed back out to see what I could muster up in the way of store-bought "chicken gravy."

Not much. Carlos and Alicia's was closed. The Portuguese chicken roasters stared at me blankly when I asked after chicken gravy. (It was at this point that I remembered that the only other time I had attempted to make my own poutine was an embarassing escapade in Mexico-of all places-which would really be better off if forgotten.) I did finally find a can of "Heinz chicken gravy" at the Ethiopian dep.

So that's what I brought home.

Aviva labelled it "Cream of chicken soup" (not something you'd ever want to drown your fries in) and ran out the door to find something more suitable. She came back with a can of "Campbell's chicken gravy." It tasted like "Cream of chicken soup."

So we returned to the drawing board and made a similar version of our initial "vile" gravy, omitting some pepper, omitting some (all of the?) wine, adding some balsamic vinegar, and winding up with something vaguely edible after countless steps involving combining and recombining various elements.

(Did I mention that in the meantime Aviva's youngest pointed at our oil and the candy thermometer spontaneously threw itself into the hot oil? At which point I made the executive decision to abandon all attempts at frying, pursuant to which we decided to bake (bake???) our fries.)

In any event, the (baked) fries were ok, the (cheddar) curds were ok, the (what kind of) gravy was ok, and the ketchup was excellent.

I think we'll abandon our quest for a while.

How's that for a birthday cake?

2007-12-05T18:20:00.001-08:00

See, the ever-lovely Veever et all hosted a wonderful birthday evening for me, full of delights.

But the capper? The cheese cake. Note how much got et (not much). Note price tag No. 1. Note price tag No. 2. Note price tag No 3.

The topping was delicious. But we didn't try to salvage it.

(Aviva is a much better cook than this would lead one to believe, she of the cassoulets.)

Why I love Canada

2007-11-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

Because you can go to Loblaws, entirely by accident, and say to the cashier, "Why isn't the old fort on sale?" and she won't be fazed for a second.

(To any non-Canadian readers: Old Cheddar is called Cheddar Fort in French, and all of our labelling is necessarily bilingual, so label seems to read, "Cheddar Old Fort.)

2007-11-26T16:40:00.000-08:00

Last week, for my birthday, my sweetheart thrilled me by taking me out for a lovely meal at Batifole, which bills itself as the "Best French restaurant in Chinatown East."

We had their delicious esgargots in garlic cream sauce, the boy had tripe (he really did, and I really tried it, but have been right in never ordering it myself). Then for mains, he had their cassoulet (which paled in comparison with the glory constructed by Veever and myself) (but which was very good nonetheless) and I had their porc confit quelquechose (Confit of pork shank slowly baked with sage natural jus & Emmenthal), paired with a delicious red whose name we never quite caught. Oh, and we finished it all off with a lovely Jean-Jacque Daniel's Crepe (a crêpe with some sort of boozy filling topped with sugary pecans) and a couple of drinks. It was perfect.

But what made it more perfect? And what continues to make it even more perfect? I got there early, it was freezing outside, and I have recently fallen in love with the anonymous Chinese grocery store on the south side of the street. You know where this is going. Strolling along, eying produce, the first thing that catches my eye is a bin piled high with chestnuts, which have been on my mind for some time. Three older women are furiously shoveling the nuts into their plastic bags, focused on the task at hand. I make a mental note.

I wander around some more and am drawn back to the chestnuts on my way to the seafood section. Then I see it. The chestnuts. They're...

Well, let me tell you. In my hood, chestnuts range from $1.99-2.99/lb. Once I saw them for $0.99, but I think it was at typo.

Where I work? They range from $2.99-$3.69, and twice I even saw them at $3.99. Per pound!

These chestnuts? Well, I grabbed a bag and joined right in. They were $0.39/lb.

And I just ate some and they were delicious.

But it gets better.

I didn't know what to do with all of my beautiful chestnuts, so I trolled around some of my favourites, and what do you know.

Brussels Sprouts were on sale for $0.99/lb (I know, them's no chestnuts, but still), so I picked some up, becuase it turns out that Kevin, at closetcooking, is on my wavelength (or me his, more likely), because he posted a lovely Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta and Chestnuts. (It would appear that the only recipes I am ever to follow are Kevin's recipes for Brussels Sprouts, and the only photos I am to display are also his.)

It's that convergence. Chestnuts and Brussels Sprouts. You gotta love it.

Happy birthday to me.

By popular request: The funniest mutter paneer ever

2007-11-17T17:23:00.000-08:00

I don't think this picture does the dish justice (since four eaters had already picked it over trying to get any little mutters they could find) but can you see what I'm getting at? Look at the ratio of sauce (gravy? curry?) to mutter. Look at the ratio of sauce to PANEER!

None of the eaters assembled that night could immediately identify the dish as mutter paneer, not even yours truly (whose favorite dish it is and who makes it to varying degrees of success on a very regular basis). After we established that we had in fact received the right order, we sat and stared at the remaining soupy dish, trying to figure it out. Finally someone found a pea. We looked at each other in disbelief. "That's the mutter paneer?" I gasped incredulously, "There are only enough mutter to give us each a single pea!"

It was dismal. I cannot tell a lie. But the weirdest thing is that by and large, all of the other dishes from this restaurant are amazing. It's the best Indian restaurant I've found thus far in Toronto. (Of course nothing compares to you, Bombay Mahal.)

I'll just find me another place for my mutter paneer fix.

Vive le cassoulet!!

2007-11-17T16:53:00.000-08:00

It almost didn't happen. My low-grade illin' coupled with my friend's mother-of-two fatigue almost conspired against us. But somehow I found the strength to stop in at Macelleria Venezia (my new favourite butcher) and pick up the sausages and chicken legs (it wasn't so hard to stop in at the liquor store and pick up the wine, somehow) and we managed to pull it together.

I left work late (due in part to an extended lunch--see my previous post) and only got to Veever's a little after five. Then there were offspring to feed and tread underfoot, mise to prepare, meat to deal with (thankfully, I'm not afraid of sausage and she's not afraid of chicken legs) and a recipe to faithfully follow. (We only diverged when we realized that not only did we not have herbs de provence, but we weren't exactly sure what they contained. We made due with a couple of dashes of basil/oregano/thyme plus extra fresh rosemary.)

The only false note, and it's barely off-key at all, is a mild over salting. But thanks to the old scientific method, I've seen the error of my ways, and this error will not be repeated (the recipe will). (I "salt and peppered" the chicken in the same way that I salt and pepper a roast. The issue here is the ratio of surface area to volume.)

The recipe, found through a simple search for something like, "navy beans recipe blog" or something to that effect, is courtesy of Stephanie (I think) over at Half Baked If she doesn't mind, I'll just post it here, for kicks, because I kind of want everyone that could possibly see this to give her a try.

Now, you may be questioning some of the steps. I understand. I did myself. But just don't. Just follow her recipe. She's done right by me and I swear she'll do right by you. Oh, and her recipe is originally from Chris Kimball's The Kitchen Detective, a book that clearly needs to be added to my library.

Quick Cassoulet

serves 4 to 6

Ingredients:
1 pound dried great Northern or Navy beans, rinsed and picked over
1 small onion, peeled and studded with 8 whole cloves
1 bay leaf
3/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 pounds sweet Italian Sausage, removed from casing and crumbled
6 bone-in, skin on chicken thighs (or 3 legs that have been separated into thigh and drumstick), rinsed and patted dry with paper towels
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 medium carrots, diced
4 garlic cloves, finely minced
1/2 cup white wine
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 quart chicken stock
1 teaspoon herbs de Provence
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley, for garnish

Method:
Combine the beans*, clove-studded onion, bayleaf, 3/4 teaspoon salt and 10 cups of water in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to maintain a simmer. Partially cover, and cook 45 to 60 minutes or just until tender. Fish out the onion and bay leaf and discard.*

Brown the sausage in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat, breaking up any large pieces with a spatula. Remove with a slotted spoon to some paper towels to drain. Pour off all but 1 tablespoon of the fat. Season the chicken with salt and pepper and brown well on both sides, doing it in batches if necessary. Once browned, remove the chicken and let it sit cool down. Once the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove the skin (no rubbery skin in this cassoulet!)**

Adjust the heat to medium and add the olive oil to the pan. Add the chopped onion and carrot and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft - about five to seven minutes. Add the garlic and cook for an additional two minutes. Add the wine, and stir well to scrape up all the brown tasty bits stuck on the bottom of the pan. Add in the tomato paste and stir to combine.

Drain off the beans and add them to the Dutch oven along with the chicken, sausage, chicken stock and herbs de Provence. Bring the whole lot to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook covered for 20 to 30 minutes or until the chicken is done (when an instant read thermometer reads 165 in the thickest part of the thigh). Add the rosemary and cook for 10 minutes or more until the beans and chicken are very tender. If, at this point, the braising liquid is very thin, simmer uncovered for a few minutes more. Season to taste with salt and pepper.***

Serve immediately with chopped parsley and nice big hunks of rustic bread. Enjoy!

*The book says you can forego soaking the beans, but I soaked mine anyway.(We soaked ours too. Why not?) (Veever actually did this in advance, but there's no reason not to let them bubble away while you're doing everything else.)

**This is the step that I thought was silly. It's not. You get all the delicious chicken fat in the bottom of the pan and this is key. Do not omit this step. I don't care how tempted you are. We take no responsibility for any missteps that may result. Just don't salt the hell out of your poor chicken, like I did. (Incidentally, I had to add a teeny bit of olive oil while frying the sausage. For what it's worth (if you're following this recipe to the letter and all, I don't want you to be scared if your sausage isn't giving off enough fat.)

***We simmered the hell out of it for like two hours. With the amount of liquid this has you adding, it'll just be soup otherwise. You can decrease the amount of stock you add, but I vote for the longer simmer. All of the individual components of our cassoulet positively melted into something considerably greater than the sum of their parts. Oh, and obviously this could go in the oven and that would be wonderful and hands-free. Just adjust to suit your schedule.

Finally, I only got to Veever's a little after five, and I swear to god that dinner was on the table by 7:15, all the interim craziness notwithstanding. We could even have eaten a little earlier. So by no means an impossibility on a weeknight, my friends. All things are possible.

In the same vein

2007-11-17T16:44:00.001-08:00

I had the opportunity to be taken out for the loveliest lunch this week. It was not visionary. It was not innovative. What it was was impeccable.

Normally that's not so much my thing, but when a light salad topped with mixed berries and goat cheese is followed by a succulent honey-dijon salmon steak, I'm not one to complain.

And the gravelox? Divine? And le tout served by an adorable, charming and knowledgeable server? Sigh. Bring it on. The only other patrons were a table of elegant seniors who have been coming there since they were knee-high to grasshoppers, I'll bet.

This hushed and intimate little restaurant couldn't possibly seat forty. Thirty? Maybe. Did I mention it's another secret location? That I never would have noticed, nestled as it is on the ground floor of a condo tower? Maybe. Actually, I'm not even sure that I know where it is. I probably couldn't find it again (except for the fact that the name of the restaurant cleverly doubles as its address).

Did I mention the velvet flocked wallpaper? Classy, elegant, yet somehow bordello chic at the same time? What's not to love?

Unsung

2007-11-14T17:59:00.000-08:00

I kind of don't want to say anything, because I don't want the word to get out. Maybe the word is out, and I just don't know because my ear isn't exactly to the ground, but still. I stumbled into what I had assumed might have been a cafeteria-style restaurant almost entirely by chance tonight, but which turned out to be, well, exactly that, but also a very nice surprise.

First, I wasn't sure it was a restaurant. From the window (there is no sign, there are no hours of operation posted) you can see a long counter with some beautiful pastries displayed in front of what appeared might be, could be some sort of dinner-type fare behind it.

I admit it. I was intimidated. I didn't have the secret password, and many of the other joints I've stepped into on that uppity stretch of Yonge north of Rosedale have given the distinct impression that no password, no service.

Today, with the mercury hovering a around 60 degrees, the front door was open and I found myself sauntering in.

I'm glad I did. I wound up with a simple salad combo, but I'm sure that everything else on the menu is equally delicious.

My salads? It was the green bean salad that seemed to be calling my name, but it was the most pedestrian of the bunch. Avocado, red pepper, a light, creamy dressing...no complaints, but it paled in comparison to the:

Endive and apple salad. I kid you not. Endive twice in two weeks in two wildly various guises. It was the sharpest, cleanest, most refreshing thing I've eaten in months. But even then...

I don't normally care for "curried anything" salads. Yet I was drawn to the curried chicken for some mysterious reason. And I was not disappointed. It had a sweet edge, with two kinds of apples (!) and strawberries (!) and (I even asked, and was proved right!) manadarin orange juice (mine had a sliver of mandarin orange in it, the canned kind I guess--let me tell you, I'm not complaining).

I was a little leery when I got my plate, because it didn't seem as though there was any place to keep a kitchen. I guess they hide it downstairs.

I can't tell you where exactly it is (north of Rosedale station, west side) or what it's called, but the lady's name is Linda.

There is no secret handshake.

My apologies to the escarole

2007-11-12T16:09:00.000-08:00

The thing is, I have a very complicated relationship with beans. They are an unpredictable beast. But every time I make a batch of dreamy, creamy beans (from dried) I figure I've got them licked.

I don't.

With regards to the infamous case of the cannelini and escarole, I had just come down off of the adrenaline rush of making perfect (but I mean perfect!) garbonzo beans for something else entirely unrelated and for which perfection (in a bean) wasn't even required. So feeling just a little cocky, I'm standing stovefront thinking I can turn a bag full of dried-up, wrinkly old falling-apart beans into something majestic.

That said, the finished product, while hardly majestic, was also less bad than I previously thought. And the dish as a whole is pleasant in a not-much-in-the-house-but-dammit-I-should-really-eat-some-dark-and-leafy-greens way.

But should you want to make it yourself? Do it. Just buy real beans. In bulk, if possible, but at the very least something that's been packed in-house. (Just don't buy anything that comes with a label, unless maybe the label is in a foreign language from a place where beans are revered as they should be.) I guarantee, if a place is taking the time to measure out and package their beans, it's 'cause they're selling them. Don't do it for me. Do it for yourself.

Right. So soak:
1 cup beans overnight or whatever you do.
Drain and rinse and add to a pot with:
1 c stock/water/you know the drill
enough water to cover by 1 in (in a medium-sized pan)
1 small onion (quartered)
1 small carrot (quartered)
2 smashed garlic cloves (smashed like with the side of your knife or a rolling pin or something, not smashed like crushed in a garlic press)
1 bay leaf
1 T oil
salt
Bring to a boil, cover and reduce to a simmer 1-1.5 hrs.

Do this whenever. They'll kick around in the fridge for a couple of days just fine:
1 head escarole
1/4 c oil
3 cloves garlic, sliced
Generous pinch red pepper flakes
s and p, 1/2 lemon

Get ready to braise.

Clean that escarole like nobody's business. They're dirty little buggers. (I love dirty produce.) Rip it into little-ish pieces. Heat oil, toss in garlic just a couple of minutes, then start adding escarole 'till it wilts. Bit by bit. Then add a little s and p.

Now take the carrot, onion and bay leaf from the beans and spoon the beans and their liquid (not too much) into the escarole. Bring to a simmer, cover, adjust to a low simmer and braise about 20 min.

Squeeze lemon, add more s and p if necessary, and drizzle good oil, if desired.

Absolutely serve with bread. Good bread. A baguette from the North Pole, slathered with butter, does me fine.

More later about how, while I aspire to be Rev. Biggles or Mallika or Kevin, I always seem to wind up making pseudo-vegan fare.

Escawhat?

2007-11-11T19:38:00.000-08:00

I also made the escarole and cannellini bean thing (braise thing) that I mentioned, but the beans turned out so lame (How many times do I need to remind you not to stop in at the dep on the way home and pick up a bag of Unico (or whatever) dried beans? Just don't do it. It's not worth it.) that I am holding a grudge against the entire meal.

I'll try to keep an open mind and try some for lunch tomorrow, and maybe report back. It's not the escarole's fault that old beans suck.

The best cabbage I ever made

2007-11-11T19:17:00.001-08:00

While strictly speaking the title of this post is accurate, it's also a misnomer since it's also the only cabbage I have ever made. I don't know if I'll be making this recipe again, but who knows? Weighing in at almost 4 lb and ringing up for $1.29, it seems like you can't hardly go wrong.

Now, cabbage doesn't happen to be a vegetable that exists in my repertoire because it isn't a vegetable that ever entered my home as a kid. I sometimes exaggerate that the only vegetables that came in the front door were either frozen or canned, but it's pretty darned near the truth. Cabbage, rutabaga, parsnip...in my world, these are the exotics. I'm having fun getting to know them. I've officially added cabbage rolls to my to do list, having seen that they aren't as scary as I thought.

The recipe? ("The Best Braised Cabbage Ever" is also care of the lovely Miss Molly Stevens and her braising wonderland) (I'm approximating here)

1 2-lb cabbage, cut into 8 wedges
1 carrot, in 1/4-in rounds
1 onion in chunks
Some olive oil (3 T?)
1/4 c stock
1/4 t chili flakes (this is me doubling her amount)
s and p

Could this be easier? It's ridiculous, really.
Throw the veggies in an oiled baking dish (9x12). Drizzle the oil. Add the stock. Sprinkle the chili flakes s and p. Cover with foil. Slide in the oven (350 degrees). After an hour, grab some tongs to flip the cabbage. (I wonder if this step is necessary). After another hour, tear off the foil, crank up the heat (she says 400, but I broiled it for a bit because I really do like things black) and let everything get all nice and photo-worthy.

I served with those amazing potatoes I made the other time (new this time, rather than fingerling) (the fingerlings were better, but these were still amazing) (I think this may be the only way I make potatoes from now on).

To braise

2007-11-08T16:59:00.001-08:00

I've finally managed to start braising. This lovely combo of the easiest-ever braised potatoes and endive braised with prosciutto was a huge hit (with my guinea pig going nuts for the endive and your humble chef preferring the potatoes). Both of these recipes come from All about Braising by Molly Peters (the art of, you know, uncomplicated cooking).
I feel kind of foolish for almost never having braised anything before (with the exception of the Reverend Biggles' famous pork which is going to get made again soon). Braising is ridiculously easy, but more importantly, what you're doing is just basically cooking things shitless, which is always my preference. Charring, braising, it's two sides of the same coin, really.
Tonight I made the braised escarole with cannelini beans, but my beans were kind of subpar. So no photos. But let me just say how proud I am of myself. This week I bought three, count 'em, three different vegetables I've never bought before (the aforementioned Belgian endive and escarole, plus a cabbage that I'm going to, hold on...braise!).

Oh, those crazy kids at the TTC

2007-10-29T18:11:00.001-07:00

So you want an example? Try this on for size. Enter Bathurst Station. Try to go East, like you were trying to get to my place. Look around. See this sign. This sign appears to be telling you to go left. If you go left, it says, you'll find handicapped access, an elevator and the subway.

Now, since it says "Eastbound trains only", you might think that the only way to get to Eastbound trains would be that way. Of course, that's not exactly what the sign says, but since it almost entirely blocks the sign that indicates that to access platform 1 and Eastbound trains (not that anyone knows what platform 1 is), you should go up and to your right (in fact, it is a staircase leading down), you would be forgiven for perhaps assuming that the TTC doesn't know how to write and think that they meant to say "This is the only way to access Eastbound trains."

Of course, maybe they thought it would be a good idea to send every able-bodied person trying to head East from Bathurst station to try to cram into a teeny elevator that only goes down one level at a time. Maybe that was exactly what they intended.

That's one example.

Or how about this? TTC riders coming down the stairs at Bathurst, looking for the Westbound trains, will see a very clear sign that reads Eastbound trains, which entirely blocks the backlit sign behind it that tells you how to go West young man.

Sigh.

I love the TTC.

Proud to be a transit geek

2007-10-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

Today I had the honour and the privilege of attending Joe Clark's TTC Type & Tile Tour, a whirlwind of the good and the bad (and the very, very bad) TTC signage in use (and misuse) at stations along the Bloor-Danforth line.

About fifty people turned up to spend the afternoon following Joe around and assiduously obeying TTC Bylaw number 1. We travelled from Victoria Park to Bathurst and were subjected to the very worst of the TTC's mistakes.

I love the TTC. I hate the TTC.

Just a little OCD on a Saturday afternoon

2007-10-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

I am becoming increasingly obsessed with the St Lawrence market, to the point that when the owner of the hot-sauce shack (That rents out space to the "Mad Mexican" whose salsas et al are outstanding and who is actually trying to open up a tortilleria here in Toronto and is looking for financing--go talk to him. Seriously.) starts trying to convince me to buy a condo in the neighbourhood, I start thinking that it might actually be a good idea.

What's even crazier is that I don't even like it that much. I mean, I love it. It's fabulous. But really. Am I going to pay $6.99 for veal shank? Even if it is the prettiest darned veal shank I've seen in the city? (And believe me, since that whole osso bucco fiasco last week, my eyes have been peeled. I venture into 'hoods I have no reason to visit just on the off chance that there might be a butcher that might have some veal shanks in the window that I can ogle. Not buy, mind you, just ogle.)

And somehow I managed to spend $40.00 on cheese. And not that much cheese. But I did stumble, completely fortuitously, across some aged cheddar with caramelized onions that I have been looking for since last summer, to no avail. Of course I got three times as much as any reasonable girl needs.

In general, the market is a little too rich for my blood and staffed by people half of whom don't know their stuff. I didn't even dare ask if the ready-made (and 'famous') crab cakes are lump. (Forget about it. I'll just order from Faidley's.)

But still. It's intoxicating. And to be fair, some of them do know their stuff. They just tend ot be at the small and crazy expensive, homemade specialty items stalls. But they're good.

Anyway, who cares why I love it/hate it. Basically, what's not to love about anyplace that is predicated entirely upon food...

That said, now that I've discovered the charms of Chinatown East ("Fake Chinatown" to some), that may become my mainstay. No fish over $3.99/lb? Most in the $0.99-$1.99 range? Conch shells? Red peppers $0.59/lb? I may be completely unhinged, but I find that I prefer to split my food-buying dollars halfway down the middle. Local organic Brussles sprouts? Grass-fed, free-range, hormone-free beef? Yeah, and I'll top that off with two bags of "old" chicken bones and two loads of unidentified and unidentifiable "legumes en vrac."

Sounds about right to me.

The mystery of the flour - revealed!

2007-10-27T15:24:00.001-07:00

I was very confused for a very long time. My amazing loaf (see sidebar) turned out perfectly, despite appearing to have been made with all-purpose flour, rather than bread flour. Now, that shouldn't have happened because the yeast needs a certain amount of gluten to do its thing (or at least that's my understanding). But do its thing it did.

I was determined to make an even better loaf the next time, and so used what I was pretty sure was bread flour. But my loaf came out almost as flat as a pancake and much, much denser. I steadfastly ate about half of the loaf, but it was slow going. Fine, fine. It wasn't bread flour in the plastic container. (I thought I had labelled all of my containers...?)

Fast forward several weeks, and I set about making lazy Sunday morning biscuits. My first-ever batch of biscuits (cheddar) were ethereal and bursting with flavour. This second batch? Hard as rocks. Something was rotten in the state of York.

Though it pained me deeply, I decided to throw out all of that lovely flour (it wasn't that much really). I figured it would hurt me more to put all of that effort (and ingredients) into more baked goods that aren't fit to eat. So toss all the flour I did. First the bag of what I thought was all-purpose, then the container that I thought was bread flour...and as I was dumping it in my filthy organics container, it all became clear. The label had somehow slid around to the side. The label that read Pastry Flour.

I had made the 'bread' with pastry flour and the 'biscuits' with bread flour. No wonder the results were abysmal.

So until I started writing this blog entry, I thought my problems were solved. I was going to talk about hard and soft, bread and pastry and all-purpose flours, and talk about yesterday's purchase of whole wheat, all-purpose flour. That is, until I found out that the 'soft' flour that I bought thinking it was all-purpose is, in all likelihood, pastry flour.

And the serpent bites its tail.

It tasted better than it looked

2007-10-23T16:39:00.000-07:00

I swear. The fake pepperonata was pretty good, but the polenta (my first ever!) was great (ok fine, it was instant, but I was afraid of regular old polenta-grits--I'm not afraid any more) and the braised beans were excellent.
I am officially obsessed with braising. It all started with the anti-Kosher delicacy: Pork braised in milk. Go to meathenge for the recipe and mouth-watering photos. So I, who almost never makes meat, managed to put together this work of genius on two different occasions, and have since picked up an all-about-braising book that has since been kicking around my apartment long enough to become overdue, and have I made that osso bucco yet?
(Aside: Blogger's spell-checker suggests "insolent" for "polenta." Also "somnolent," "redolent," and "malevolent.")

Mine weren't so pretty

2007-10-21T13:40:00.001-07:00

I adore Brussels sprouts. I have since I was about five years old and my family was over at a friend's house having Thanksgiving dinner. I promptly informed my mother that I wouldn't be eating those green balls (what kid is going to like something that looks and smells like Brussels sprouts?), and she just as promptly informed me that I wouldn't be getting any turkey until I ate five of them.

So I did. I ate all five. And then ten. And finished by filling up on Brussels sprouts and skipping the turkey. (Yet somehow failed to become a vegetarian...)

It honestly never occurred to me that you could do anything with Brussels sprouts other than steam or boil them until I saw what Kevin, over at Closet Cooking, did with them.

So go look at his: Brussles Sprouts with Pancette and Parmigiano Reggiano. I didn't bother to photograph mine. I just et 'em.

On a similar (you'll see once you read his ingredients) yet mainly unrelated note, if you're in the GTA, do yourself a favour and go and pay Maselli's a visit. Pick up some of their home cured prosciutto. And try their homemade tomato sauce and let me know how it is.

I Love to Vote

2007-10-10T13:59:00.001-07:00

Jeez, but do I ever love to vote. And to make things even better, in post-vote euphoria, tears streaming down my face, I got to stand in the rain and listen to some crazy traditional Greek music blasting out of what I believe is Dmitri the handyman's bachelor apartment.

I will make a chicken curry tonight, and definitely forget to photograph it. (I have a whole new theory, but I'll save that for another time.)

World's worst food blogger reprise

2007-10-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

So I made two healthy, delicious and beautiful veg. dishes this week, neither of which seemed to evince any desire to be photographed for posterity. Tant pis. Then last night, we re-visited the home of the killer chicken korma, a photo-worthy event indeed, but of course it didn't occur to us to memorialize the meal until the dishes were but a shadow of their former selves. Then Aviva had the brilliant idea to pull out the camera, to document the mutter paneer.

At first, we thought that we might have gotten the wrong order. Baignan bartha? Check. Chicken korma? Check. Biryani lamb? Check. But what is this mysterious creamy dish? We dredged a spoon through the sauce, trying to guess at what it might contain. There were indeed a couple of huge squares of paneer, but was there anything else? Just paneer in a turmeric scented yogurt sauce maybe? But no! A pea was found. And then two! But honestly, the ratio of pea to sauce was about 1:15.

I'll post a picture to prove it. Eventually.

Why am I the world's worst food blogger?

2007-09-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

Deciding to be more proactive in the area of food photography (we all know that food blogs are much like personal ads: No picture = no interest), I brought my camera to work yesterday, since my partner and I were planning on eating at Epan before catching the Blue Jays (5-4 over Tampa Bay, for anyone who's interested).

(Aside: Epan is a Chinatown anomaly. Located right on Spadina, it is impeccably clean (Think mirrored walls being fastidiously wiped down, think non-overlooked bathrooms), it's spare and elegant, and it's ridiculously delicious and affordable. I'm on a quest for hot and sour soup, and they have the best I've found since the closure of the Montreal restaurant that served the best ever.)

We ended up going to Banjara, probably the best Indian I've found so far in Toronto. We ordered a ridiculous amount of naan (the menu item of theirs I'm least crazy about, though I hear loads of chowhounders love it), a lentil spinach dish and their chicken korma. Oh, and the thickest straw-sticking-straight-up-until-you-physically-reach-in -there-to-grab-it-and-only-just-barely-have-the-strength-to-move-it mango lassie ever.

But the korma. Everything else I've had there is good, but the korma is to die for. We cleaned our plates (and I joyously ripped out a tupperware container from my bag which I proceded to fill with the leftovers, feeling very pleased with myself for this accidental green gesture), paid the bill, packed up to leave...and I remember my camera.

No pictures of a mouth-watering korma for you.

That "posting" thing?

2007-09-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

That "photo" thing?

My poor blog doesn't seem to be thriving. Picture it (though I've probably already physically acted this out for any conceivable blog audience I may have):

Pacific Mall (North America's largest indoor Asian mall, don't you know), upstairs, toward the West (?) end. We order delicious steaming plates of deep-fried pork ("Sweet and sour? Not regular sweet and sour") and deep-fried (do I detect a theme here?) spicy green beans with sides of rice. Our food is delicious (query: the green beans appear to have a ground-meat product in them, but I now wonder if it's either a soy product or maybe even just beat-up garlic and ginger - any ideas?). The Peking Duck at Shark's fin city is gorgeous. Everyone's food looks at least as delicious as ours.

Then "Thunk. Thwump. Thunk." The noodle master at Sun's Kitchen is casually slapping a 6-ft noodle rope against the counter. "Thunk. Thwump. Thunk."

Next time? I will bring a camera. We will eat noodles.

Poutine Quest II

2007-09-21T19:13:00.002-07:00

Seeing as how I spent essentially all of my adult life in la belle province, and seeing as how I have a friend who wanted to eat with impunity throughout her pregnancy, we decided some months ago that it would be a good idea for us to hunt down the best poutine in the city. Strange rumours abound: Costco? Dangerous Dan's? I warily read reviews upon reviews of poutine (sceptical of Ontarians' take on the Quebec classic) and then set off with my trusty sidekick to eat some goddamned poutine. The verdict?

Dangerous Dan's: Excellent classic squeaky curds. The portion was huge, the fries frozen, the sauce brune overly thick: Thumbs down.

The Chinese/Canadian joint with homemade burgers on the west side of Coxwell just north of Gerrard: Fresh-cut fries. Excellent. Mozarella (I do not approve, but my dining partner gushes at the fromage fondant). The weird thing was the gravy. It was clearly homemade but it had an unmistakeable and regrettable sweetness. The owner proudly explained that it was basil. Unfortunately: Go back for the fries, try the burger, avoid the poutine at all costs.

British Style Fish & Chips: (Full disclosure: This fish & chips joint tops my list.) (Yes, I am also on a Fish & Chips quest.) (My longest-standing quest is for hot and sour soup.) (Suggestions welcome.) British Style was easily the best of the three. They did have curds, albeit of that odd variety of intensely flavoured cheddar (purists out there—is this wrong?). The sous chef is a Quebecker who wheels and deals to work cheese curd miracles. The gravy? Excellent. Thick, but not too thick, salty, but not too salty. The classic poutine brown. A thing of beauty. Also to be mentioned are British Style’s fries, and here is where the trouble lies. Their fries are a force to be reckoned with. However, based on this one experience, it seems as though the fries are fried in the same oil used for the fish. It isn’t something you’d notice when eating a classic fish and chips meal, but in the context of poutine (and sauce brune), there’s something a little odd. That said, it was still my hands-down winner. But the quest doesn’t end there…

I have a source who scoped out Costco and their reputedly amazing poutine, but he claims that reports of its superiority are greatly exaggerated.

So, killing time on Yonge between St. Clair and Summerhill, I noticed that the lovely Rebel House boasted a true curd-based poutine. And off I went.

It was the oddest poutine I have ever had. Odder even than the basil inflected poutine on Coxwell. First, the fries aren’t even remotely fry-shaped: Slightly thicker than bagged potato chips, they are essentially chips and essentially the same temperature. The curds did appear to be curds (of the British Style extreme cheddar variety), but it was hard to be sure, given their lack of integrity due to the heat of the sauce.

Right. The sauce.

It almost knocked me off my chair. I was eating bacon. Bacon sauce.

Upon consideration, I realized that no pigs had in fact been harmed in the making of this sauce. It was a typical sauce brune that had been jazzed up with a dollop of hickory smoke.

WILL SOMEBODY TELL THESE CHEFS THAT POUTINE DOESN’T NEED JAZZING UP ALREADY!??!?!! Forget your godawful three-pepper sauce. Forget your shiitake mushroom sauce. (And while you're at it forget your bacon and your hickory smoke.) It’s real simple: Take some potatoes. Turn them into french fries. Take some sauce. Make it brown. Throw some squeaky cheese on top. If you must jazz it up, you may: Add chicken, small peas, ground beef, onions, or a combination thereof. Although I strongly advise against it, you may: Replace the sauce brune with spaghetti sauce. That’s it.

Next time you’re in Montreal, head up to Laurier and St. Denis, walk into the building with the conspicuous orange siding (Chez Claudette) and order a petite poutine avec des petits poids. You won’t regret it.

Italians and their plastic fruit

2007-09-18T18:18:00.000-07:00

My nonna and my great-great aunt Jenny used to make a killer agnolotti soup* but sadly, the recipe has been lost in the mists of time. My sister and mother don’t really care much for food (my mom’s ideal house doesn’t include a kitchen) but my father and I would stake out our grounds (near the soup tureen) early, and keep a careful watch on the clock.

But before my palate was fine-tuned to appreciate the depth and brilliance of this simple soup, I would still get hungry. So my first memory of the soup isn’t of the soup at all, but rather of the crushing disappointment that only a 3-year-old can feel when she sneaks a dazzling bowl of fruit underneath the table to quell her hunger by popping those shiny succulent globes into her mouth only to be, well, crushingly disappointed by the taste and texture of hard, dry, decorative plastic grapes.

Meaning that my first memory of Italian food isn’t of Italian food at all, but rather of seemingly luscious yet completely inedible fruit.

I’m sure you can imagine my pleasure this evening when, at the "Salt, Spices and Herbs in Italian Cuisine” lecture at the Istituto Italiano di Cultura, I pulled up a chair at the front, settled in and cast my eyes over at a nice display of rosemary, basil, parsley, peperoncino and…yup. Plastic grapes.

*This dish contains little, ridged half-moon shaped pasta and while there is some debate about what exactly they were stuffed with, it could have been spinach, spinach and cheese, or possibly and occasionally veal, but it was never, I am assured, never ever lamb. Now, as the name suggests, rather than being served as a pasta dish, this was a chicken-broth based soup. I have the idea that spinach may have floated in the broth, but again, it’s all kind of hazy by this point. I've been on a bit of a quest to try to find an approximation of this recipe somewhere, but sadly my labours have been to absolutely no avail. I know that the thing to do is probably just to make a really good chicken broth from scratch (natch) and really good homemade agnolotti (again, natch) and it would probably be pretty damned close to what I remember, but if anyone out there is even remotely familiar with this magical concoction, please do let me know. I’ll send you a bowl.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Fine, fine, fine.

2007-09-17T18:22:00.001-07:00

This is one of my feeble tortillas.

Admission (and bragging): When I took it out of the bag to get this shot, they smelled so good I had to make me some quesadillas. And they were delicious, kind of.

Tortillas take two

2007-09-17T18:00:00.001-07:00

Part of yesterday's excitement came from my very first attempt to make tortillas from scratch. While less glamorous than I would have hoped, in the main, they were a success (always remembering this was virgin territory for me). On my first attempt, I thought the dough might have been too dry, so today (take two), was my attempt to remedy that.

Turns out the dough wasn't too dry yesterday. It was just about just right. The main problem seems to be that I don't have a tortilla press. Yet. I tried rolling out the tortillas between a slit open ziplock bag, as advised (this works pretty well), but nothing (not a 'flat'-bottomed pan, not my rolling pin, not some sort of improved cheese plate, not a jar) really worked.

I also used my non-stick skillet, which, despite having come recommended, was truly a mistake. You really need to crank up the heat for the tortillas to come out like actual tortillas, and charred bits of tortilla remnants seem to have permanently burned themselves into the teflon coating.

Which leads back to my obsession with seasoned, cast-iron skillets. I need one. I've been shopping around, but having blown it by missing an amazing deal last year at Williams Sonoma of all places, the best deal I've found (and it's a strictly average deal, at that) is at Honest Ed's. I kind of expected to find someone's granny's skillet at the Goodwill, seasoned with love, as opposed to industrial-strength oil, but that was not to be. Ed it is. I'll post about my next tortilla attempt (with photos) once I'm adequately equipped.

Sometimes I get crazy ideas

2007-09-16T17:32:00.000-07:00

Like, 'Maybe it would be fun to start a blog (yes, it would), and while you're at it, why don't you make it about your life at the end of the universe (sure, why not?) and hey, why not write it in French?'

I have a lot of bad ideas. That was one of them. But I find myself spending so much time these days perusing other people's exciting and/or beautiful food blogs that it occurs to me that that might be the way to go. I highly doubt that I will wind up dedicating it entirely to cooking/eating (for example, did you know that when you subscribe to game day audio on mlb.com, should you choose to listen to a Red Sox game (if, say, you need them to annihilate the Yankees like they did last night to slide my boys up to a scant 1.5 out of the wildcard spot) you have an option to listen to the game in Spanish?), but that's the idea from here.

My loaf (see sidebar) really started the 'why not try your hand at a blog again' ball rolling, though I haven't done much baking since. I did, however, 'invent' a recipe tonight, and what's more, it was a MEAT-BASED recipe, so I am very proud. Inordinately proud. 'Inordinately' because it was basically just a revamped version of the only other recipe I have ever invented. More on that some other time.

Anyway, I'm in.

Déneigeuse pour les bottes?

2006-01-31T19:17:00.000-08:00

Je n'ai aucune idée comment ça s'appelle, ni en anglais, ni en français, mais en entrant au centre de loisirs Édouard Lavergne, tu seras obligé de mettre tes pieds dans la bouche d'une machine qui t’attend, bouche bé, pour manger tes pieds.

Le but, comme j’ai découvert, c’est de déneiger les bottes de tous les visiteurs. On y fait de la boxe (donc on risque de glisser), du yoga (donc on est dans nos bas), ou bien de la photo (pas rapport), et je trouve cela une idée géniale.

Ce n’est pas tout le monde qui prend le temps de sécher leurs bottes comme il faut, donc un génie inconnu s’est trouvé cette façon de faire.

beau temps, mauvrais temps

2006-01-30T18:17:00.000-08:00

Aujourd’hui n’était pas une journée pour trouver de quoi aimer à Québec. Il faisait assez frette, pas trop. La précipitation tombait du ciel, mais encore, pas trop. Le problème que j’ai découvert en débarquant de la bus sur Boulevard Laurier, c’était la combinaison de la précipitation et le vent.

Il y a un méchant vent qui souffle au long du boulevard. Tout le temp. Des bourrasques de vent qui font leur mieux de te pousser en dessous des roues des chars qui passent. Ajoute à ce vent féroce des millions de grains de cristal qui te gratte le nez, les joues, les lèves, et tu peux visualiser cette maudite journée à Québec.

Mais j’ai pu apprendre à distinguer entre ces formes de précipitation, grâce à mon bien-aimé : Environnement Canada.

Ils nous annonçaient de la neige. Ceci « se compose de millions de cristaux de glace hexagonaux en forme d'étoiles. » Non. C’est-tu vrai?

Mais si on parle de la pluie verglaçante ou la bruine verglaçante, là, c’est autre chose. Ces adorables « gèlent au contact des surfaces et forment une couche de glace au sol et sur les objets touchés. »

Ouais, j’en ai vues aujourd’hui.

Pourtant, ce qu’il appelle les granules de glace sont « des gouttes de pluie ou des flocons de neige minuscules, translucides et gelés ou de la neige enrobée de glace, rebondissant et émettant du bruit au contact du sol. «

Moi, je dirais c’est plutôt du grésil. Et oui, encore, on en a eu.

Quelle journée. Quelle journée d’enfer.

Elles sont willing(s)

2006-01-29T16:19:00.000-08:00

En jouant dans un tournoi de poker en basse ville aujourd'hui, j’ai souvent entendu ce mot « willing ». Il semble que les cartes, elles peuvent être willings, mais un joueur, lui aussi peut être willing.

C’est doublement drôle, car dans le monde de poker que je connais, ce mot ne s’emploi jamais. À la limite, peut-être qu’un joueur pourrait l’être (moi, je dirais plutôt « up for it » ou simplement « interested »), mais les cartes?

Pourtant, j’aime cette idée que ce sont les cartes elles-mêmes qui désirent se faire jouer. Qui sont enthousiastes et prêtes à n’importe quoi. Qui ont le jeu entre leurs mains, si on veut.

En plus, si mes adversaires laissent toujours leurs cartes jouer pour eux, ça donne bien pour moi.

Mais en passant, je me demande, dans ma capacité de traductrice, si ce mot, cet emprunt, s’accord en nombre et en genre (et voici l’explication de mon « s » entre parenthèses).

S’il y en a parmi vous qui peuvent me le confirmer, j’apprécierais énormément. C’est ce genre de chose qui nous empêche de dormir, les rédacteurs, écrivains, et traducteurs du monde.

Checkez la pitoune

2006-01-28T17:26:00.000-08:00

La sensation époustouflante de m'entendre dire « Elle arrête où, la huit cent? »

LA huit cent. C’est tout à fait possible que ce n’est pas l’autobus dont on fait référence...plutôt la route, mais je crois que non. C’est juste que, ici dans la capitale nationale, cette véhicule est devenue une fille et, mieux que ça, moi j’ai réussi à intégrer ce concept dans mon esprit.

Et donc la. La huit cent. Pas loin, juste en face.

Il y a peu de choses qui me font plaisir dans cette maudite ville, mais cela, ça me plait.