Swizzlesticks

smokey ricotta

2009-04-10T13:38:00.020-04:00

Smokey Ricotta had me curious. I'm not one for smoked cheese. I am one for Salvatore Brooklyn, and it's their new(er) creation.

Smokey Ricotta defies prior notions of smoked cheese.

Toasted marshmallow is more like it. I tasted it at Saxelby Cheesemongers, who sell it by the hearty-thwacked scoop.

Everyone has their own marshmallow roasting technique. I like to spin mine slowly on a spear, char it, and eat the outside -- the crackly roasted part. Then I immediately re-roast and repeat.

Salvatore's Smokey leaves the same effect on the palate -- Campfire. A backnote of smoke, sweet smoke, that doesn't knock one over with head-smoke or unpleasant chemical liquid-smoke notes.

The question I got from everyone who dipped into my pint was "What are people doing with it?"

To keep the Brooklyn in Brooklyn, I decided I'd make an open-faced 'smore* with this not-quite-sweet not-quite savory thing. And since Brooklyn is as Brooklyn does, borough it.

Shavings of a Mast Brothers chocolate bar

Atop Salvatore Brooklyn Smokey Ricotta

Upon Hot Bread Kitchen Lavash.

*When the Brooklyn-born move to Vermont, drizzling maple syrup on this will balance everything out.

melt

2009-04-04T20:32:00.003-04:00

on a saturday
as the mountain melts to town
she makes crisp bacon

it's what's for dinner?

2009-04-02T07:36:00.002-04:00

for obvious reasons, this article leaves me unsettled.

click on gertie. photo by jennifer may for the nyt.

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Carhartts

2009-03-27T22:18:00.049-04:00

Along with the seasonal time change there's the light change that comes along with it. Here in Northern Vermont, heading up to the barn at five, for the three hours I'm there if I evening milk, the light outside is tinged with a purple and pink glows-- where it's not bathed in fog.

I was late. 5:03. 3 minutes late, and feeling horrible about it, I walk in to the barn. No amount of saying "fuck, fuck, fuck!" in my car as I white knuckled the dirt road to Laini's got me there any faster. This time of year the drive is as gnarly as the nubbed roads.

I was able to distract Laini from my lateness.

I had spent my day getting outfitted.

Last week Laini and Kate kept checking out what I was wearing. Kate thought maybe there'd be something around that I could wear over my clothes, but I didn't want to ask. I'd come up with a combination of old ski gear that was losing it's oomph on the hill - or on the flats. Yoko nordic-gloves have proven to be extremely udder-friendly.

I'd already invested in Muck boots, but it was the rest of me -- the parts that had to lean on the barn stalls and on the milking stand and on the goats themselves, the parts of me that were having to sometimes get a little dirty with what what my feet were protected from.

Let's just say I now know why certain boots are called "shitkickers".

If I've just taken my writing off the Church reading list, so be it.

Back at the barn, what I opted for held up.

What I'd set out for in the morning was coveralls. On a hot tip from a friend, I set out for Waterbury.

I guess these have gone out of fashion, or are just not a part of this season's line. The four storesI went to in three different towns had only a pair each -- and the smallest was Men's size 48. None of them stocked the "ladies" version, which I didn't know existed until store #2.

Knowing that I shouldn't show up back at the barn without some more sensible attire, I was on a mission to figure this out. At store #1, I'd already come up with the overall option, seeing that Carhartt made a smart pair for my tasks.

I knew from seeing some guys at Martha's and at the hardware store in Lowell, just North of Lazy Lady, that all of these options came in padded or not. I wasn't sure what I wanted. But at store # 2, in Waitsfield, I had three different salespeople helping me and giving me advice, while I was eyeing all these other cool Carhartt items in the surrounding racks.

I'm not including the above vest on my wish list, but it was the first unnecessary item that caught my attention. Just as I was thinking "that would look cute on me", I realized it was because a boyfriend or two had the same one, and I did not need to own this. I thought I may have even worn this, after Pink Floyd, cold and leaving Nassau.

But then I remembered it was this.

And it wasn't walking the parking lot. This is what the guy who slept next to me lent me while we waited on line overnight for the tickets in Midtown Manhattan. The corner of 57th and 3rd, even in June, makes for a really cold night, even if you're in a tent. My line-mate was convinced we were getting 4th row. I got 11th.

This jacket has kept me warm a few times since. Guys who like music like this jacket. The next one I wore was of the boy who taught me to love AC/DC and the Allmans.

I drift, but Carhartt did help take my mind off my sorrows yesterday. At another time in my life, and in the life of our nation's economy, you could say I was partaking in shop therapy.

Yesterday, I did not get tickets to phish Merriweather. With three computers, two phones, and six friends and relatives on the task, it did not happen.

So in Waitsfield, not knowing that Carhartt had gotten so racy and high-fashion, I make a note of some things I want to and can buy.

I was two hours' drive from work, and losing time. Driving south hadn't been the smartest idea, but neither was putting what I'd seen and thought I wanted on special order. I loved this color.

They call it sandstone. I call it khaki. No one had it in my size, and really, it wasn't lined, which by store #3, also in Waitsfield, I'd realized made sense. My upperbody and hands stay warm from all the activity, but my legs tend to get a little stiffer and colder.

I gave up and headed north. I knew I could stop in Morrisville, and did, and I hit the jackpot. Literally.

Store # 4, Caplan's, had discountinued ladies' chocolate brown bibs, lined, size 10.

You will have to channel the image for now.

They rock.

At the till at Caplan's, they have you pick out of a bucket, choosing from hundreds of colored slips of paper, to get a discount.

$74.96. And I'm pretty sure these are going to last.

breakfast in bed

2009-03-26T10:17:00.008-04:00

I am still the girl, sitting on the floor of our kitchen on East 56th Street, my mom sleeping late with a baby in her belly, my dad cooking up "breakfast in bed" on the stove.

If you asked me to tell the greatest joy of my childhood, (besides jumping off a slow, low chairlift at Mount Snow with Jenni Eisenberg, at the height of our pre-adolescent rebellion), I would say it was making breakfast in bed for my parents.

Balancing juice on a tray, laying out the designer white paper napkin, the fork, the spoon. Putting cereal in a bowl, or toast on a plate, since I didn't really cook yet.

The long, slow, steady walk to the bedroom, balancing the tray, not knowing yet that to look at where you're going as opposed to looking at the tray is the way to do it, taking small, careful steps.

Thinking of my dad's initiation of this ritual makes me giggle as I did then -- though then it was a shriek of delight that woke my mom, ruining a bit of the surprise.

He was cooking an omelette, and thought he'd impress me by flipping it. He didn't. Softish in the middle, it dripped along the oven, and I remember shaking my head in disbelief at the mess, thinking he'd be in trouble. The "ooh you're going to the principal" kind of trouble, since in my 5-year old mind, and maybe still, mom ruled the kitchen sector.

I have been thinking alot lately of this type of memory, before I knew who I knew who I was, or who I would become. I still don't really know. I know parts of me, but not all of me. It takes my family and friends to reflect myself onto me. As I'm going with some trepidation, and also excitement, into my next project, I'm at their every whim. How do I create the lifetime of memories of food and recipes and travel and my hometown into 600 feet? That is the task, and I'm taking it on, all in the name of flavor and fun.

to-do list

2009-03-23T11:56:00.010-04:00

1) study italian
2) plan international trip of this year
3) send anne a birthday card
4) send david a birthday present
5) shop
6) pack
7) write something meaningful

something meaningful.

I am overwhelmed today, and what else can I do to get past it but cook?

I'm not in the mood for eating, but am going to bring a sweet to my crush.

What am I making? Of all things, cheat and sweet dulce de leche. Cooked stove-top, in the can.

My mom taught me this trick:

You submerge a can of condensed milk in a pot of boiling water, and boil it for 90 minutes. Once the can has cooled, you can open it and spread it on bread, spoon it onto ice cream, or, well, eat it off the spoon. Or something.

shopping list

2009-03-23T11:17:00.003-04:00

1) union suit
2) muck boots
3) udder-friendly gloves

cinnamon crush

2009-03-21T17:59:00.013-04:00

my loves love to board
they'd no love for cinnamon
only loved my charms

still can't shake my love
of cinnamon, red hots
hot tamales, and fire balls

and skiing.

"what is it you want?" kerry asks.

"good kisses and free sweaters?"

evening milk.

2009-03-20T23:52:00.019-04:00

I have never appreciated cheese more than I do right now. What goes in to each piece is hours of careful, strenuous, intense, and devoted work. Of course I knew this prior to setting foot on Lazy Lady soil. I just didn't have the sore back, arms, hands, bruised hip (from walking into an iron hook), or exhaustion from milking. Only the milking.

After the morning's gaffe, I drove home the longway, through Craftsbury and Greensboro, great cheese towns in and of themselves, to take a siesta. I was excited to get back to the farm, I felt more confident. I could master milking.

I didn't sleep so much -- a combination of my continuing odd dreams and anticipation of the evening ahead. When I got to Westfield, I was early, so I went into town, bought some Butterworks yogurt and cottage cheese, and a KIND bar for a snack.

Back at Lazy Lady, Laini and I fed the kids -- pails of warm fresh milk with nipples built in the sides -- she had just budded them -- burned down their horns -- and the barn smelled like the river ghats in India and burning plastic combined.

She asks me to take the pails of water out of the stalls and throw them on the manure pile, and I literally ask her to demonstrate. To clarify 5 a.m. versus 5 p.m. was too much, but this -- I want to be sure the manure pile is where I think it is, and when she says to throw the water on it, I want to make sure I'm going about it the right way.

I sweep out the stalls, clearing room beneath the mangers for fresh hay to fall.
After these barn chores, it is then that we're about to begin to milk and feed -- I get the pre and post-teat treat solutions, the milk pails from the cheese room.

I walked back to the barn, to the milking stands. They were reversed from how they were in the morning -- and there was a completely new milking pail -- with two sets of two suctions on it. Two goats would be milked at once onto the same pail, whereas in the morning, each goat had had it's own pail, and it's own set of suctions.

It was like a mensa test, as I stood before the two ‘New” positions; I felt how the goats would feel moments later – where do I go, what do I do, this looks…weird…scary…I don’t want to…

The goats, in short, freaked. For the last two years, they've walked out of their stalls, right up onto the milking stand, heads through the slots, no questions asked. Now, they’re whining and kicking, not sure of what's different, but they don't know where to jump up, which direction, they're unearthed and unsure and are like "who's the new girl?" There was gonna be gossip in the stalls all night after this nonsense.

I'm trying to remember to open the head locks and put the food in the trough before I get them from their pens, since food's a sure draw once you've got them on the stand, even if it's eating at a different angle then they're used to.

They're stubborn, they're not budging easily. The goats easily weigh 200 pounds a piece. We're coaxing them gently, then notso gently. I’m grabbing their collars, Laini’s holding up their hind legs, as soon as they put their head through the slats over the manger, I shut the latch, locking them in.

Jack from Butterworks Farm stops by, and Laini is proud to introduce me. "She's from New York City!" She exudes -- and he says "they're gonna make a farm girl out of you". I love his yogurt. I blush.

I"m running back and forth, grabbing another goat, forgetting to put it's food in the trough and to open the head slot. I feel like I'll never get organized, and then as we're running back and forth, Laini's wondering why the goats in pen 3 are fighting. Easy answer: I've put one back into the wrong pen. I wish I could say this was an isolated incident.

I have so many questions -- a search on the internet brings up a brilliant quiz from UC Davis which answers many of them. Going back to milking Monday night with some of these wonderments sated will at least quiet my head.

Laini has as many questions for me -- about New York, about my family, about food, about Stowe. I feel in some ways that we're great windows into to each other's worlds.

Just as we're finished with Alice and Loretta, the last two goats, Laini high-fives me. "If that's how you feel, then I feel great." I felt like it was a disaster.

After I've swept the barn out, Barry walks through. "That’s about as bad as it gets ," he tells me.

"If that's the case, I'll be alright."

morning milk

2009-03-20T11:52:00.009-04:00

Day one of milking.

In my efforts never to be late or to screw anything up, I show up at 5 a.m. as opposed to 5 p.m.

No matter. It gave me the chance to give Laini a good-morning hug, after scaring the day(night) lights out of her.

And it was good for me, since I've only milked cows, in the 700-hundred per-herd feed 'em into the massive barn style -- in one end and out the other, rounded up by dogs, horses, and atvs. This is still the only way I know how to describe what I did in New Zealand. I was young and green, and they were Freesians and massive. I barely knew where I was each day, then, at 4 a.m., for a week.

Lazy Lady Style? Not so lazy. Alpine goats.Pull them out of their pens in twos, get them up on a stand, feed them some grain, minerals go in the middle of the manger, pre-treat the teats, wipe them, put the pressure on the hose, make sure it's sucking the milk out of the teats, ask the goats not to kick you, rub their belly if they squat, post treat the teats, lather, rinse repeat.

This is merely my first impression. I trained with Kate, tonight with Laini.

I fit in a cursory meal at Martha's, realizing I made a party foul by wearing my barn boots into the diner.

talk at the till

2009-03-18T15:07:00.007-04:00

overheard at the register at Harvest Market in Stowe, compulsory cash-out chat.

note: we are located in a ski town.

"do ya think it's gonna snow again?"

"i have the fourteen cents".

"can you believe this weather?"

"has it been slow all day?"

"have you heard the weather forecast?"

"have you been up at the mountain?"

"have you all changed your hours yet?"

"how are you this morning?"

"has it been busy?"

"are you going to have garlic bread on friday? it is so good."

"enjoy your day".

"i'm sorry -- i don't have any cash".

"i'm sorry -- i don't have anything smaller".

"you're going to have to type in the card. i need to get a new one".

"you have a good day".

"ooh i love this song".

the road to fame can be rocky

2009-03-15T21:35:00.001-04:00

i should have mentioned last post, not everything goes according to plan, and I'd thought I'd have more time for cuppings along the way.

http://gustiamo.typepad.com/gustiblog/2009/03/santeustachio-coffee-on-its-way-to-phiss-trey-anastasio.html

sant' eustachio

2009-03-11T19:55:00.032-04:00

No sleep 'til Hampton.

En route to the phish reunion shows, many things flashed through my brain. One, while passing the cool grafitti on West Farms Road in the Bronx, was the remembrance that it was Olive Oil Day, and I made a quick u-turn off the Bronx River Parkway to sample the new harvests at Gustiamo.

Since they hadn't opened any yet, and I was in a rush, I snacked on a crostini topped with Beatrice's bright mix of bottarga, olive oil, capers, garlic, and olives, which she also uses on pasta.

As I tasted and kibbutzed with the ladies, I had an idea. Their prized Sant' Eustachio only makes it out of Italy for Gustiamo to distribute, and so I would give it a tour of the Mid-Atlantic states. We'd go to Hampton together, and see a show. This could make the band appreciate the need to taste it -- travelling 600 miles to visit them, by car, after a long flight from Rome.

Just like Obama appreciates their pasta.

I picked up Sebastian in New York. He didn't ask about the extra passenger, but he knows that coffee and I have a special relationship.

The three of us paused for a moment beside the highway in New Jersey.

And pulled over for kick-ass barbecue in Delaware. Not one to break tradition, I had the brisket.

Nine hours into the drive, I was ready to stop for the night. We made our way to Potomac, Maryland, to the home of Ethan Robbins.

We had high hopes after this cush stay. It was on to Hampton, to slightly divier digs, but a room with a view.

Sant' longed to go in to the Mothership. He stayed by the window and waited.

My roommate Narric and I took him to Chili's. He was horrified.

And horrified again, when he saw the trappings of the kitchen -- he hid in the corner -- he'd never been brewed in a situation like this before.

Things were looking grim. We were running out of ideas on how to get him inside.

Ethan had an idea -- A pot of coffee for your extra?

In an atypical move, I just shoved him into my bag and walked into the venue.

We were safe inside. No one noticed the bulge in my belly bag.

Sant' wanted to dive onto the stage into Trey's arms, but I kept him rocking in mine.

Seeing my stash, the woman next to me was stunned. "How did you get that coffee?" she asked. "It's from my friends at Gustiamo, I told her. "We had it when we were in Rome!" she elbowed her husband "Look at what she has!" she said.

"How did you get that?" He asked.

"I just got an e-mail about how they're a woman-owned business," Jen smiled. "This is too cool." She and Dan yelled over the music to tell me of their trip to Rome, and how obsessed they were with the caffe. She'd found Gustiamo, the only mail-order source, through the net.

Sant' and I sat back and enjoyed the poularity, and the rest of the show. We didn't make it into Trey's hands, but there's always Wantagh.

hen of the wood

2009-03-03T15:49:00.001-05:00

I have a crush on Hen of the Wood.

For whatever reason, I cannot get this to rotate.

Two nights in a row, my folks and I dined at Hen of the Wood. This was night one. The dinners were sating, and now I'm back to hard-boiled eggs with sea salt, and peanut butter and banana to sustain me.

martini, up, olives, on this stowe street on the saturday night. i've recently been trading these in for a slew of spanish wines, mostly monsants, and the occasional stray to argentinian malbecs, to commemorate a friend's trip to the patagonian andes. well, and then there's el nido's clio, which i even drink with lunch.

but on this night, and at most meals out, I begin with gin and end with bourbon.

a nightly-changing menu.

menu negotiations

we drank our "welcome" sparkling while we planned our attack.

settlement:

Hen of the Woods Mushrooms

Vermont Bacon, Poached Egg & Red Hen Bakery Bread

Crispy Fried Oysters
Aioli with Tarragon, Cornichons & Capers

Rhode Island Calamari

( i rarely stray from these starters, their mainstays)

with these above, we

Braised Greens with Smoked Chilies, Lemon, and Breadcrumbs

Winding Brook Farm Pork Loin (Art Meade, the farmer, is my neighbor. Love him, love his pork.)

Glazed Local Turnips & Valentine Radishes with Housemade Red Wine Mustard

Winding Brook Farm Lamb Shanks

Organic Main Beans with Local Cipollini Onions & Green Olive Salsa Verde

Vermont Highlands Cattle Co. Hanger Steak

Crushed Local Potatoes & Grilled Pete's Farm Sweet Onions

solstice at stowe

2009-02-28T18:35:00.001-05:00

choice: healthy living in burlington

2009-02-28T16:41:00.001-05:00

proper ski boot fit

2009-02-26T10:33:00.011-05:00

So what do I bring the people that help me get into these baby blues?

The best chocolate bar in town

To, it's not the best chocolate bar in the world. That belongs to the camp that I've left, and that I miss dearly, amedei. Sigh. There are many things to miss whenever I leave manhattan, but usually when I leave an employer, it's not as hard as this.

I cannot get "the world's best chocolate" here. I would pay the price if I could.

What's so great about amedei, one might ask? It's one simple thing: no soy lecithin, no cocoa butter.

SL and CB are shortcuts that chocolatiers take to smooth their chocolate.

What the "best" maitre chocolatiers do is conch the chocolate until it's smooth -- and it makes a great difference in mouthfeel -- no break on the tongue, no separation -- simply a coat across the roof and tongue, never sticky.

Why does the xocolatl please me? The chilies and nibs distract your tastebuds - causing a salivary reaction that doesn't allow you to notice the soy lecithin.

an apple a day

2009-02-25T12:09:00.002-05:00

anyway you slice it:
from the top
fgp
maldon sea salt
champlain honey
champlain apples
teddie's crunchy peanut butter
elmore bakery oatmeal wheat toast

2 italian women, 1 german woman, and 1 brooklynite. gustiamo.

2009-02-24T21:30:00.006-05:00

There's alot going on at Gustiamo these days, and in the boroughs in general.

First, Gustiamo got verified as a women-owned business. (I'm readying my free-shipping order).

They attended the market benefit and got hippified.

My mother made dessert with their balsamico, and things got minutely racy on West 81st Street. My mother's family were in Brooklyn in the middle, settiung up candy stores and synagogues. We used to spend alot of time waxing poetic on the past, but now there's wax for the present, and it's tasty.

My grandmother says "the best people come from Brooklyn." And then adds "but they leave!". I don't see any of these staunch supports straying West anytime soon, whether it's to Manhattan, or Berkeley. That is the one thing that may change. Static, but satisfied lives, filled with integrity and practiced, appreciated crafts. It is the quintessential, idyllic, demand and supply.

saveuring pumpkin

2009-02-23T15:26:00.006-05:00

From forever ago, unearthed on the web, pumpkin.

I got my start in editorial food as an intern there. Mindy Fox, my co-intern, never strayed from that path, much to my delight. She and Sara Jenkins are poets of food.

eat, drink, memory

2009-02-23T12:16:00.007-05:00

There are very few times I'd condone canned-food, or snowmobiling.

When you live off the grid in Utah, with no road-access in winter, snowmobiling might come in handy. Occasionally you'll cross-country ski it back.

When there's nary lemongrass nor ginger at Albertson's, let alone galangal, well, why not can it, when your belly and mind are craving the exotic?

Vanessa and Kate and I ferried out to the the Conabee cabin in the wilderness, one with a claw-footed tub that used to be used to drain pasta in a Salt Lake Italian dive. A cast-iron stove for warmth, no phone.

We nourished our souls with tales of South East Asia (mine) and backcountry adventures(theirs). We painted watercolors late into the night, one of which I still keep around.

Today, on a snowy Monday, chillin' in the cellar at Fine Wines, I escaped the chill and my mind to the tune of these memories.

I ate the large pieces. Again.

Stove not included.

stowe ski and snowboard school

2009-02-16T22:32:00.003-05:00

when dollars are given out for school lunches, i hope some will be for ski school.

we're allowed unlimited no-crust pizza and hot chocolate, but the main menu, well:

hot dogs
macaroni & cheese
tater tot casserole

you get the picture.

nary a vegetable in sight.

equal exhange

2009-02-13T17:16:00.001-05:00

emma tastes the 71 percent

revision,chorizo

2009-02-12T10:07:00.004-05:00

so much depends upon
a piece of chorizo
glazed with
fat
resting on
tines
floating above
shells
approaching
my mouth

update: living on the edge

2009-02-11T23:17:00.002-05:00

It's 11:22. This is the second latest I've been up in a month. Since last night.

I'm sitting upright, legs beneath the laptop, on a pale yellow bedspread, drinking a riskily inky Syrah.

I have $27. 49 in my local checking account. I've "misplaced" my credit card. I have 87 cents in cash.

(i have a full refrigerator; one job where I'm fed lunch, one where i can eat whatever i want, whenever, another where i get to take home wine, another where i am paid partially in cheese, i am fine, other than the fact that i have 4 jobs, in a 7-day week).

Laini of Lazy Lady

2009-02-09T12:33:00.004-05:00

So I drive 7 miles shy of the Canadian border in Vermont, to Lazy Lady Farm, to find Laini Fondiller, the cheesemaker, ladling goat's milk into molds.

I'd pulled off the road 12 miles before, in Coventry, to eat at "Martha's", so I wouldn't show up impolite and hungry. I had poutine. I'd only first heard of this dish 20 hours earlier, and there it was again, one word, "Poutine", taped up to the stainless wall of the diner.

It was a momentous meal/snack. Too big for one, I mused between it and my cup of coffee, and remembered, all of a sudden, what and where Coventry was. What happened there.

Poutine. I had been standing in the cheese section of Formaggio Cambridge a day earlier, eyeing their clever recipe board adorned with their warm, hand-written cards. "Poutine" kept the company of "raclette"and "fondue"; I plucked it out of its little holder as I thought it was a cheese dish and worth saving. I didn't read it.

Poutine. It sounded like a word that my French chef-lover used to mumble when he'd left something on the stove too long or thought he'd over-spiced. But that wasn't it.

Poutine is omni-present today. I arrive home to the DeLuca-Hinksons', I tell them of my travels and my tastes. They just received our weekly box of farmed goods from Pete's Greens, and in it, alongside the potatoes, a recipe for Poutine.

At Martha's, in Coventry, Vermont, for $4.50, you get a serving of fried potatoes in their skins, covered with gravy and squeaky cheese curds. "If they squeak when 'ya eat 'em," Laini told me, "they're the good kind."

Coventry, as listed on the alphabet-tile black board above the swivel stools, is at least 15 miles from everywhere.

The recipe, from Formaggio, crumbled in my pocket:

And tonight, lastly, but not leastly, I open up my friends' new newsletter from their cool as all beer haven in Brooklyn, to find they snacked on Poutine during their field-trip-team-build in Montreal. All who know Poutine seem to know it's attached to the Quebeçois.

And now, so do I.

pea carbonara pistou (pronounced "pea stew")

2009-02-08T22:05:00.002-05:00

there once were some Manhattanites
that were eating at Telepan on a random night.

when the waiter schpieled a special soup,
one of the diners got a song in the loop.

to the tune of sting's "tea in the sahara";
a chorus of pea carbonara:

pea carbonara pistou

pea carbonara pi-stou

pea carbonara pistou

pea carbonara pi-stou

hi rise bakery

2009-02-03T17:16:00.002-05:00

cookie spread for a snowy boston day:

clockwise from anise tea cookie (partial):

oatmeal cherry ginger

molasses

oatmeal raisin

paneforte

hadley mass and me

2009-02-02T19:01:00.001-05:00

no photos. there's a hadley, massachusetts, you know. but that's not where i am. i'm at hadley's in mass. in watertown. waiting for eric and his girl to pick me up and go for tasty food. this is a post for hadley. who doesn't eat breakfast. but i may change that. i think people can change, if only for awhile.

name this burger.

2009-02-01T12:00:00.001-05:00

treif like me

2009-01-21T10:02:00.000-05:00

I have a perpetual fantasy of being a kosher wife, one who lives by the book, keeping a spiritual, strictish Jewish home, making babies every Sabbath, and making sure the hora lasts as long as possible at any wedding I attend.

And then I eat some pork.

This does not make me a bad person.

It doesn't make me a bad Jew.

Pigs were shunned by certain peoples for certain reasons. As Jane Grigson aptly notes in Charcuterie and French Pork Cookery, pigs were not the animal you wanted to herd across the desert. It is for this reason, I also assert, that my people left them behind.

For 4 days and 3 nights my brethren and I have partied in Miami. Each night, we have dined Glatt Kosher. On the 3rd day, I made a little detour for adventure with Eric, who's so relaxed, he didn't need to chill by the pool with the mishpucha. Chill: 50 degrees. In Miami.

Another good reason for some hot food in Little Havana.

We knew of two places, and though this, Cafe Versaille, is as much of a tourist spot as it is for locals; the food is spot on. That's not what really piqued my curiosity, though: it was where John McCain went to reach out to the Cuban community.

They must have been too busy eating.

Beside my roast pork plate (at top) , came a lovely side of rice and beans laced with lardons, and fried plantains.

Chill Eric chose the chicken livers.

I had plenty of pork left over, which came in handy post- wedding for my over-danced midriff at midnight. An excellent contraband snack.

semi-local

2009-01-09T11:25:00.000-05:00

breakfast for a penny-saving palate:

vermont butter and cheese chèvre

on a

vermont common cracker

liberally drizzled with

olive oil

dash of

hot red pepper flakes

sprinkled with

fleur de sel

five ingredients, two local...two-fifths...kinda how i feel about my residency.

it only took three to fill this belly up.

Taking a Turn: The Road to Turophile

2008-12-21T23:12:00.001-05:00

detour.

http://theroadtoturophile.blogspot.com/2008/12/road-to-turophile.html

dairy.

behold the better bread

2008-12-17T10:00:00.001-05:00

What to do with a lovely looking yet dried-out overbaked (long baking's part of the reason and I'm partially redundant) loaf of lovely-looking Zingerman's mail order bread?

A gift is a gift, it can always be morphed if you can't bear to part with it, especially when it's carvable.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/aspenici/sets/72157611359464824/

Alas, the better bread, Jessamyn Waldman's Hot Bread Kitchen lavash, are keeping me sated on my lazy nights -- they come in several flavors -- sesame, poppy, za'atar(!!!), and salt. I've been drizzling olive oil atop for a midnight (alcohol-sponging) snack.

I crafted a vase for them, as opposed to a pedestal.

fette sau

2008-11-12T08:24:00.000-05:00

My belly is in full speed.

Whenever I feel the need to leave our island of Manahatta creep on me, I try to fit alot in.

I can already hear my brother "hey, we can't have a party every time you decide to move."

But we can eat.

I thought last week that I was further behind my peers in NYC restaurants. In some ways, I am, but in others, well, I've checked with the people that go to every new place as soon as it opens (and, she adds, somewhat bitterly, who can afford to...). Maybe they just don't go to Williamsburg.

I partially don't blame them, though hipsters and skinny jeans don't offend me as much as they do some others. Having not lived in New York during the major gentrification of the borough, I'm still awed.

I read about Fette Sau on Sunday, and by Monday, I had hunger pangs for food I hadn't known yet.

I had a good excuse to get there, and didn't have to convince any of my potentially lazy dining companions, I had an out-of-towner to entertain. It took me 24 hours, but I got there last night.

I blissfully left my camera at home. BBQ hands and electronics don't mix that well.

Briefly I will pen this, as I plan (hope) to return later this week, and then list what I consume. Afficianados among you can read my greasy ticket up top and know. You should head there yourself as soon as possible. I could only manage an eighth of a pound of each meat (I had a sharer, 1/4 pound minimums), so I'll gladly join you if you do.

Most notable for Mondays and Tuesdays: Heather is the bartender I'd want to sit with almost any night. "Mixologist" friends; I love them, but they can be so detailed in their creations that they can't talk, and sometimes, knowing enough of the stories behind the liquids, I want to hear about the establishment and the bartender themself. Heather's a lifer who basically grew up in a bar, and pours, talks and listens simultaneously, totally committed to both her art and to her guests. She's working taps and filling groggers and gallons and not shaking too many drinks, so she's at the ready.

Yes, I often just want my bourbon, neat. Here, you have a choice of dozens. Maybe a hundred.

I go for what I don't know faced with a list this well-edited, and here it was Rowan's Creek.

Her second pick with me, I'll have to add it's proper name and characteristics later. It was her second pick, and, with my metabolism, bourbon hits hard. That and some mead later in the evening have made all the details a little fuzzy.

Thankfully, I grabbed a card.

pio pio

2008-11-09T21:40:00.000-05:00

In Italian, "piu, piu" would be "more, more". No Italian I know would be asking for more of this -redolent-of-cilantro-feast, but no matter. We had 5 happy mouths to feed, no cilantro fear here.

As for "more" - thank god it's Sunday. Tomorrow I shall fast.

Not really. But this was a heady four days of food, culminating in tonight's Peruvian supper.

I am still only dipping in to this flog thing, and it will probably be this way for awhile...I'm a bit more active on flickr, so feel free to keep tabs on me there. My past few meals are well represented in the sets.

I don't know what Pio Pio means. I'm thinking it's like saying "cluck cluck", but any literate parties chime in. Tomorrow I will revisit all of this.

This sauce is probably not supposed to be slathered on everything in sight, but we used it as if it were mustard-ketchup-salt-mayo...reeks of garlic, cilantro, and fiery chilies, blended with some cheese. We asked, in Spanish what it was, but none of the servers had any idea.

I don't normally order calamari, as it can be a caloric and belly-filling waste. However, and I stand by the men beside me who know better than I, fried calamari, fried just about anything, is a surefire way to test the mettle of a kitchen. Forget about omelets. Sure, you can really mess up eggs. But can you manage to serve succulent mollusks in a crispy batter, that stay hot and don't get mealy? Pio squared succeeds en plus.

This tasted alot better than it looks. Potato cake surrounding crabmeat and avocado, roasted pepper sauce, a cotija-like cheese....and a non-functional olive garnish.

Jauela. I may have spelled that dastardly wrong. Beneath these vinegary onions lay an assortment of fried fish. See calamari, above. Excellent. This is the "small" size. It feeds about 10 as a starter.

Those who know me know I don't do poultry very often. Tonight was no exception, but I tasted the skin. Awesome, tangy, crackly, seasoned. The meat looks moist. My companions, rampant chicken eaters, tried many times to have me taste it -- it's "the best". That's all they kept saying. They ordered me this, which threw us over the edge:

Spare me the peppers, please. Why, why, why barely cooked peppers within this bed of braised meat? So unneccessary and unpleasant.

The tostones were spot on, but the garlic sauce beside them -- even if they were just a vehicle, which they weren't, that sauce should be bottled -- it's thin, liquid garlic and lemon and cilantro and divine.

Mickey joked that this was an intermezzo. That sparked enough laughter for us to digest and finish it -- some indigenous (to Peru, not the UWS) fruit that must be mighty starchy -- it tasted like tostones with a bit more sugar, blended with pumpkin. To be named later.

Buenas noches.

behold the donut of the plant

2008-11-08T08:18:00.001-05:00

ryan hardy grabs the moment with his iPhone

partners in crime

2008-11-07T16:30:00.001-05:00

photo in a mirror in a basement in the village
Originally uploaded by aspenici

this post has nothing to do with food, unless you count the pretzel upon which we were about to munch on, I having tried on 8 pairs of converse in colors and styles we negged, Caslow having tried on 10 pairs of pants and sunglasses and hats and our having had a little green before we left his apartment, and well there was the pretzel man outside urban outfitters, and then we agreed that it's a vehicle for mustard and were laughing about just about nothing and our indecision on clothes and wanting snow and denying ourselves overpartying and loving our city and the company of good shredders and dancers and nappers and what else do you need on a monday night mid-fall in manhattan?

saigon bakery

2008-11-06T21:45:00.004-05:00

i'm not through the hiatus yet. but i'm eating. most of the time. total credit for showing me this place goes to sergio. though i had to ride through a funny little intersection the wrong way to get there, it was well worth it.

makin' coffees

2008-10-28T22:17:00.000-04:00

So in lieu of the prohibitive blogger video format, I've posted mine on flickr with the photos
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aspenici/sets/72157608126135517/
It's been an extreme few weeks of heavenly coffee and intense learning.
I'm loving it, I'm wired, and inspired.

hot

2008-10-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

Why will my new boss and I get along?

While I'm busy managing part of his coffee business, he gives me small personal projects on the side that he knows I'll savor.

After a brainstorming session on espresso bars today, he calls me into his office, and pushes 3 boxes my way.

" I want you to go through these," he tells me. "I brought them all here from home for you."

There are about 60 jars, of a variety of sauces and spreads and spices. A tenth of The Fancy Food Show, though less annoying and cloying, is at my feet.

"I went through some of them. I threw out anything I knew was really old, or if it had an expired date on it."

There's pickled galangal, fried garlic, and mustards from my old Napa neighbors. Some steak sauces, peppers, spices, and a jar of my favorite peanut butter. And then 2 separate boxes of chili (fire) sauces.

"I want you to taste them, let me know what you think, see if we should keep them, have fun with it, and inventory them."

What better reason to lift my ban on this flog for awhile?

"And take photos of each".

Sure thing.

I've only just begun, starting with the photos of my favorite: heat.

Next up, the tasting. Ouch la.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/aspenici/sets/72157608433340884/?photo_deleted=2980681982

Any inspired palates, send me a line, I will send you a bottle.

kicking it.

2008-10-14T00:06:00.000-04:00

I was a very good girl tonight.

torta del casar

2008-10-11T10:49:00.000-04:00

Torta del Casar.

Unpasteurized sheep's milk. Nutty, buttery, pleasantly earthy. Like me.

I love this cheese. Part of a Spain's Greatest Hits plate eaten with Haber at 6 p.m. on Friday.

One of my favorite partners in crime has returned to Manhattan.

West Houston Location. Crossing MacDougal.

Rueda for me, Garnacha for him.

My hiatus will allow for clipped posts.

hiatus

2008-10-09T08:11:00.001-04:00

Readers:

I have loved writing this all, the outlet, the palate record, the photo sharing, but I have to take a break. I'll let you all know when I'm back.

For now, I have to focus on a new job with Caffe Terzi/Amadei: www.caffeterzi.com; http://www.amedei.com/jspamedei/index.jsp?lang=en

I will see you back here as soon as I get settled on my new path.

In good taste,

Nicole

the brisket of curry hill

2008-10-02T17:51:00.001-04:00

I was cycling from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and realized, in my maelstrom of errands, I hadn't eaten. 21st and 3rd, thinking Curry Hill, I call Jennifer, who lives nearby, and ask her to duck out of her work for a bite of Indian something.

"Come over for brisket?" she asks. Well gosh, of course. Who doesn't love brisket? I use Joan Nathan's recipe, and love her lead into it.

Along with being a top entertainer and cook, no one creates a space like Jennifer. Bulthaup has been a perennial life fantasy of mine, and she's made a new kitchen happen around it, with an oval, marble, Saarinen tulip table, bright red poly chairs surrounding, and cascading natural light. Anything might taste better here.

Steaming savory brisket, with some kasha varnishkes on the side. I can't compliment the varnishkes. Not because they weren't good; I'm sure they were as good as they can be, but along with cooked canned peas, I place kasha varnishkes -- can't take 'em.

"Some people are just afraid of a big slab of meat," she tells me, as I'm glowing at her 3-ingredient masterpiece.

"Just 3 ingredients," she says. Four if you count salt, five if you count water. So let's say 3: beef, dates, and onions. And it is perfect. "Technique is the key" Jennifer supposes, and she's right. Stripping the cut, time, patience...we didn't have a camera at the ready, but she's going to cover it in an upcoming article which I'll post, along with her recipe.

Matsugen: Shochu

2008-09-29T06:20:00.000-04:00

My Grandma Roz tripped on the way in to Matsugen. There was lipstick on the sidewalk where her face had smacked the ground.

No amount of shochu would have been enough to erase this moment, but we tried to, in between dabs of her chin, while blotting the rising blood.

Shochu is intense.

The word "sake" in Japan refers to alcoholic beverages, though here it refers to rice brew. In parts of Japan, the word sake is understood to refer to a totally different alcoholic beverage, also indigenous to Japan, but distilled and not brewed: shochu. Like wine, beer, and liquor, shochu developed as it did as an expression of terroir. Weather is the greatest affect on the development of shochu.

Shochu can be distilled from sweet potato,rice, buckwheat, and barley, brown sugar, chestnuts and other grains. No waste there. And, each of these raw materials gives a very, very distinct flavor and aroma profile to the final product.

Grandma Roz usually goes for vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon. We were brave here. Given our panic and stress, we ran the gamut, and partook in brown sugar, rice, sweet potato, and buckwheat shochu. Separately.

Smooth, light: rice; earthy, strong: potato; chewy, dirty: buckwheat; brown sugar: slightly sweet, peaty.

Bouillabaise

2008-09-28T08:50:00.000-04:00

This is how it ended.

After Davidson

Escoffier

Fish

Chez Panisse

and a trip to epicurious

I made my own decisions, since no one else could decide upon anything.

In doing so, I began with nearly 9 pounds of fish. My boys at Pisacane give you whole snapper and filet them, so you buy three pounds to get two. In the interest of having the other most-often suggested by the "experts" fish, I added in 2 pounds of cod, halibut, and sea bass. 2 dozen mussels and 2 dozen clams. There were to be 7 people. We might have been 9. We ended with 6 people, and starting with all of that fish, 3 quarts of fumet, a quart of tomatoes, crushed, with juice, 2 chopped bulbs of fennel, a tablespoon saffron, 2 bay leaves, a chopped onion, and 8 minced cloves of garlic, this is what was left over.

My method was simple.

Saute the onions and garlic in olive oil, in a large dutch oven. Add the fennel. Saute all until fennel is just tender. Add tomatoes, saute til they are just drying out. Cover with fumet. Reduce by 1/3. An hour before guests arrive, split liquid into two pots. Twenty minutes before serving, add fish. Once it is cooked through, add shellfish. Stir in parsely. Serve.

Accept another guest making rouille, and serve beside stew with garlic croutons.

Garlic croutons: thinly slice a baguette on the bias. Toast in 400 degree oven until just golden. While the toasts are still warm, rub with cut garlic.

the chosen

2008-09-27T16:08:00.000-04:00

One of my Barcelona photos, of Pinotxo, fab tapas bar in el Mercat, was chosen for a city guide. Nice.

my brother and i do lunch

2008-09-27T15:00:00.000-04:00

End of Summer Day

2008-09-24T11:03:00.005-04:00

How is it that end of summer is in September? Kara and I celebrated it on Sunday, September 21.

We started out at her soon to be new apartment at The Griffin, in Fort Greene. A stop at the flea market, where we valet parked our bikes, and partook in the ricotta of Salvatore Brooklyn. For a girl that was weaned on Chinatown and Little Italy, a cannoli for breakfast is a great way to start the day. I still had a smidge of coffee in my mug, carried cautiously from Southside. The balance of acid liquid and sweet cream-crunch was perfect.

Off to Coney Island, we pedalled along the Shore Parkway, musing about boys, New York, and our jobs.

We took in seagulls, sand, a dog with kraut and crinkle fries with ketchup.

We pedalled back through the streets, made a pit stop at Franny's, said hello to Sergio, owners Franny and Andrew, briefed them on our eatadventure, and pedalled back to the flea market.

We'd been instructed to bring wine and ice to Joe's Paella on the Grill Fest, but we thought that cannolis were a suitable a) we're very late peace offering and b) dessert addition.

Betsy and Rachel's ricotta rocks. Though it's available at several retailers, watching them fill the cannolis, or spread it on a baguette to top with prosciutto, while hearing the stories of their eureka moment, it just about the best way I can think of to enjoy it - as the line cues up beside me.

We sped off to our final destination, the cannolis strategically perched in my pack.

The paella was still on the grill.

When the paellera arrived at table, the crowd was patient.

And then devoured it.

Better than Bittman.

Il Buco

2008-09-24T09:56:00.000-04:00

I have fallen in love with Il Buco from time to time, but never so much as on Sagra di Maiale: the outdoor pig festival.

He was a good one.

How the poor guy ends up being the butt of the festival, well...this is something I chew on, often.

I was a vegan, then a vegetarian, then a vegan, and now am as carnivorous as carnivores come.

I spent three days in Vermont last week with my other. We eat alot of pork, and did a few times during our time up north. I asked him if he'd ever keep a pig. The answer is in the question, I know this. He loves them. Eating them, and them.

There's a big conflict there, and I try to keep it out of my mind when I'm about to partake.

It was these thoughts, this morning, that led me to think, I must read Charlotte's Web again.

Maybe Wilbur and Charlotte and Fern will make me feel better about this today.

For now, I know that the man and I will figure out a way to live beside, with, and eat animals and be okay.

Except when we come across one of you who eats dog.

Brown-Bagging It

2008-08-26T17:36:00.000-04:00

Back to School lunches giving you or your kids the jitters?

Faced with the bag and some empty containers, I get excited about the options and the ease of combining them. Granted, I live in a city where I can go out and get just-like I'd make items at any hour, say, when pulling in from Labor Day weekend and remarking, "hey, honey, I forgot about the kids..." even though they're just asleep in the back of the car.

Wait. I just remembered, I don't have kids. Which was why when I first started writing this, an obvious addition was peanut butter, and, sadly, I hear it's banned from most schools. First it was "Catcher in the Rye", now this. We live in a mad, mad world.

But, a world with at-the-ready, healthy, organic-if-you-like-it snacks, that are easy to slip into the bags of your loved ones (I'd make a bag for my "other", and think you should too).

In my approach to providing lunches for myself and "others", whether it's off to school, work, the ski-slope, or camp, I like check-off lists. I like segregated fooding. Protein- check, Starch-check, Fruit-check, Veggie-check, Sweet/Snack-check. Not only does this thinking work for me, but if you're the type to completely ban food or nutritional groups, this will be a friendly meal-planning method.

I first think of the size of the outer-vessel -- brown bag, plastic bag, shopping bag, back-pack, etc. Are you limited size-wise? If so, work backwards from there. Think of your square foot (or inch) ,whether or not the food needs refrigeration, and whether or not it will taste good if it's not heated up. From there, I stand back and select from a list like this:

Breads/Starch:

Pita
Rolls
Bagels
Tortillas
Loaf breads
Muffin

Fillings (Dairy, Protein, Fruit):

Hummus
Guacamole
Cream cheese
Cheese
Jellies
Jams
Butters (apple, pumpkin)

Vegetables:

Cherry tomatoes
Baby carrots
Sugar snap peas
Cucumber slices
Broccoli “trees” (florets)

Fruits:

Nectarine, peach, plum (late summer East Coast greats)
Banana
Apple or pear
Orange (clementines are best for little kids b/c they're easy to peel)
Box of raisins
Dried fruit
Individual applesauce (depending on your kid or the kid in you)

Pre-cut melon or pineapple

Snacks/Sweets (Make up for food groups here):

Pita Chips

Tortilla Chips

Yogurt
Cookies
String Cheese Sticks
Almonds

Add-ons, tips & tricks:

an array of tetra-pack beverages needing little refrigeration - from coconut milk to sauvignon blanc, dedicate your bag to the recipient
a container of tabouleh or another grain salad, the addition of mesclun to sandwiches makes a "garden variety" bag "gourmet"
soups, whether they will be served hot or cold, can be made in batches, frozen, and left out to thaw the night before
always include a napkin and fork or spoon (or both, or heck, a spork), just in case

le bilboquet

2008-08-11T17:58:00.000-04:00

The elderly man sitting next to us waited and waited for a bottle blond, half his age, who was half an hour late. When she arrived, plucky, kissing him on the cheek, his "you're not even going to kiss me on the lips?" stung. Painful people to share a banquet and corner with in as intime space as Le Bilboquet.

But I had Famous' nails to stare at.

Since my first steak tartare there in '95, eaten across from my dad after having wisdom teeth pulled, I've been smitten with this francophilian's outpost on East 63rd. In a sea of posers and poseurs, Le Bilboquet (cup and ball game) never misses the mark.

I partook in a pork-laced lentil salade,

Famous ate her frites & salade, with a side of chicken paillard

And then we shared a lackluster but spot-hitting tarte tatin.

It was twice the size of any you'd find in France. We left half over, as any proper French women would do.

Festival Food

2008-08-11T16:35:00.000-04:00

Along with being a flavor junkie, I am a music junkie. Currently I'm decompressing from a three-day binge of Radiohead, Metric, Animal Collective, GirlTalk, Kings of Leon, Ben Harper, Trey Anastasio, Cat Power, and Jack Johnson. There were more, but since you come here for food, we can talk about them later.

Let's talk about corn dogs.

Festival ticket: $89 face value

Ferry ticket: $30 round-trip

Corn dog: $5

Views: priceless

I would take the views anyday, but would rather keep my corn dogs to relish at the Iowa State Fair. My first cd was one of those flavor-life moments that I can't let go of. A weekend with my Park City boyfriend of the season, who brought me home to mom en my route home to New York. I woke up to smells of bacon each morning, made visits to little league games in the afternoon, and ate corn dogs at night.

In Jersey City, not quite back to reality, I opted for the vegetarian dog. It was worth no penny of the $5. I couldn't drink in what my friend Paula aptly dubbed the "drinks corral," a gated-off section to protect drinks from being drunks. 5 per limit per day. You pay $90+ for a ticket, and groove to tunes with a 'dew, a water, a somthing that ain't liquor in your hand. Unless you've snuck it in. I needed no corn dog to soak up the suds. I needed real food to satisfy my empty bellie and wandering mind.

My festival food?

Not real.

Pathetically, but magically, these Greens Energy Bars work wonders. I'm rarely one to tote "fake food", but essentially, these are not -- they're herbs and plants and minerals -- all raw, all organic, low-glycemic, and a super-reliable sustained-energy boost.

And for a festival that won't let you bring in outside food, find a pack with a trap door for safe stowage.

Columbia County Kosher

2008-08-04T08:04:00.000-04:00

Is it kosher?

Sometimes it's tough to tell, especially when you're the shabbes goyim, shopping for someone else. But we came up with a solution: don't buy pizza (kosher pies would be hard to come by in Columbia County), make it.

What's the questionable substance in the video? Marshmallows. We were thinking s'mores for dessert (fireside), as was our host. Marshmallows: animal gelatin. Not kosher, unless specified.

As far as the pizza, we knew we wouldn't be able to find kosher dough, but we could fake it. There'd also be the question of timing. My accomplice Lola Beatrix and I decided to go with a Middle-Eastern style pizza (fitting) that would build up from a lavash.

We had plenty of toppings at home leftover from lunch. An added request, which stumped us only slightly, were sliced black olives. We now know that Hannaford's supermarkets have 4 olive sections: deli, Spanish, Italian, and California (where you'll find some kosher ones).

Once at home, it was easy to stay legal. We used paper plates and foil to keep the food from touching anything treif. Not working in a kosher home with a kosher audience can be tough, but Lola and I aim to please. We're two learned academic and spiritual Jews, and we were on a mission. It was 9:30, long after the time we should have and could have started cooking (sundown).

What did we create?

I sauteed the vegetables that we'd had over lunch. Forgive the simplistic intructions and forgo and ideas that we're condescending -- simple things like paper and foil and prep (plastic knives and forks, people) mean everything here.

Sauteed in kosher olive oil: onions (first), peppers (second), and zucchini (last), all seasoned with sea salt and pepper.

While I sauteed the veg, Lola pre-heated the oven at 400, and crisped the lavash.

Beginning with a base layer of seasoned whole milk ricotta, we spread sauteed onions and a small amount of fresh mozzarella atop.

I left mine like this, but the others built up

Side by side, placed in a 400 degree oven, they took a mere 4 minutes for the flavors to meld.

smokers rule: birthday shots and scores

2008-08-01T08:03:00.000-04:00

I partook in a shot-of-caffeine toast for pre-game

Post-game we headed to Riverside Park's bar to celebrate our second-to-last win. Tonight: watch us tear it up at 5:40 in the North Meadow.

Jimmy Nissenson, center, tried to forget being woken by a bounce-up he slept through in left field.

L to R: 2nd baseman, catcher, happy to have almost made it through the season. 2nd baseman is still trying to forget and forgive herself for how hard she tagged one of the two Seligman team girls.

Nick Micelli ran over the stats and gave post-game commentary

A shot of Jack for all.

And a shot of SoCo, Jonathan Neil demonstrates proper retrieval.

Someone has missed a shot. Birthday girl Slaven downed this.

Suck up the alcohol with some corn (Caslow) and some of Buttercup Bakery's best.

For full-season commentary and statistics, please visit http://collmer.typepad.com/cac_smokers/

drifty

2008-07-31T08:27:00.000-04:00

I might as well say right off the bat: navel-gazey, dear-diary, dear, dear me. Post-birthday day, I'm exhausted and melancholy and elated all at once. And here we go. Turn around if all you need is food and no me today, there's only drink here, and not much about it.

Glad we could get that out of the way.

Having woken up at 3 feeling like I'd been hit by a truck (red wine following shots of SoCo and Jack and a gin & tonic) I was compelled, after 2 hours of musicking myself awake, to watch the sunrise over the river.

It seemed like the best way to start this next year of my life. I've been missing California and Colorado, missing time outdoors as opposed to in.

As my headed pounded somewhere above my feet, I lifted my plastic ban outside the corner deli, and it was somewhat worth it.

Honestade is mellow and light -- not a strong enough lime for my palate, and I wanted it sweeter.

I was not mellow and light this morning -- feeling grumbly about how once I get to the river I have to walk around it to get to it, between fences and traffic. There were also many more people than I expected out at 5 a.m.-- and I waxed on the bakers' hours that I no longer keep.

Not much happened, just a few peaceful moments by the East River, the river that's not really a river, but a tidal strait.

But the true gem of this expedition was in the walk back.

On 93rd Street, Robert Arnow, who left some envelopes with his return address on them (Robert!) inadvertently gifted me a treasure trove of music when he threw out his garbage. I post-picked the remains of what someone else had already started, exposing a bounty of 70s music, some of which I'd have bought had I had an 8-track at the time.

I didn't have one. My aunt, who lived across the street, did, which I'd listen to with her (Donna Summer, Diana Ross, Fleetwood Mac) while poking through her little film containers full of weed and pills. Grandma, if you read this, it was a long, long, time ago. This was mostly 1976-1978, the years that I remember clearly because my brother was born.

So I didn't have an 8-track (born just past the right time), but I had a ViewMaster and a turntable. Both sent my dad and I over to Alexander's on Third Avenue (now Bloomberg) for vinyls and viewing cartridges, often. One visit we bought a tape deck.

First vinyl: Tschaichovsky's "Peter and the Wolf." I wore out the cover quickly, as I'd thumb it while I listened. First ViewMaster cartridge: "Road Runner". First cassette: Kiss "Destroyer". I think that my dad coerced that last choice. Gene Simmons lived upstairs from us. My dad was curious as to what his "music" sounded like. I didn't get it. Until a few years later when I got Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall," I didn't use my tape player much.

The Arnow Collection, now on display in my home, prior to crating and carrying:

In this stash: 8-tracks:
Waylon Jennings: "The Dark Side of Fame"
Dr. Hook: "A Little Bit More"
Toots & The Maytals: "Reggae Got Soul"
Living Voices: "A Christmas Songbook"
Rod Stewart & The Faces
The Best of Vic Damone: "On the Street Where You Live"
Benny Goodman Trio & Quartet: "Live 1937-'38
Peter Tosh: "Bush Doctor"
Neil Diamond: "Love at The Greek"
Perry Como: "The Perry Como Christmas Album"
Elvis Presley: "Elvis Sings the Wonderful World of Christmas"

Cassettes:

Music from the Motion Picture Soundtrack "TOP GUN"
Atlantic Starr: "As the Band Turns"
Barbra Streisand: "Songbird
Bob Dylan: "Hard Rain"
Neil Diamond "September Morn"
Neil Diamond "Primitive"
Kool & The Gang: "Emergency"

I left behind "Music to Make Love To". It seemed invasive and like it might have cooties.

Timing is everything. Moments later, none of this would have happened.

god bless america

2008-07-28T23:22:00.000-04:00

$5.65 for an ice cream cone?

I sucked it 'till it said Marlboro.

The ladies in the green subway light were trying hard to figure out where they were going, but I wasn't going to take a break from my chocolate sorbetto to help them - and waste a drop of the 1.75 scoops. At $5.65, it costs more than single-origin chocolate, and that it is not.

What is it?

Well, as I type, bright-eyed as ever, three hours later:

"Made from the finest French chocolate." Hmm. Call me a cynic, and a caffeinated one at that, but the last time I checked, the finest French chocolates did not contain Corn Syrup, Chocolate Liquor, Cocoa Powder Processed with Alkalai, Rum Extract, and Vanilla Extract. I am sure of this.

A turn to

La Maison du Chocolat

Pierre Marcolini

and

Jean-Paul Hevin

show

no

no

and

no "other" ingredients in their "chocolate". I'm not going to argue the semantics of "from the finest French chocolate", but if the "finest" were used, the additives would only destabilize it, and though the ingredients are paltry, they're not stabilizers. I am dismayed by the price more than anything. The mouth feel won't see me going back. If you do need to try it for yourself, take note that a PINT (28 scoops) is $5.75. Math, people! I lost on this one.

As I told the sweet boy who scooped for me -- there's a first and a last time for everything. I handed over my $6, he said "Five sixty five, thank you, you have a good night". I did not tip. With a line like that, I hold out my hand, and leave it hanging 'till I get some change.

Where is the Good Humor Man when I need him? A Toasted Almond on a stick surely beats this.

schiller's and the girls

2008-07-26T10:11:00.000-04:00

Schiller's is a great 3rd date place. You lean in with your companion and can have an audible conversation for two.

It is not a place for girls' night, as you can't hear any stories, good, sad, or bad, without screaming for who else knows who can hear.

I went there to meet the sister of my cousin's sister-in-law.

With one of my favorite LA girls. Face protected, as she had a miserable time.

My ears are still ringing, post-rock, but the waiters are so charming and the flair so there, that I always go back for more.

The food rocks, too.

moules in a creamy, abundantly fenneled broth

paired with frites, crispy even when cold, in a cone, macaroni and cheese pulling in the rear

light salad, killer vinaigrette.

and a young Côtes du Rhone.

I am a fan, at any decibel.

Sharing & Snacking: Bikes and Bites

2008-07-15T13:32:00.001-04:00

I couldn't have asked for a better assignment: Supervise the New York Bike Share Project's 18th Street station. Location, location, location: for 5 days, ending yesterday (hence my absence from the internets), I sat, stood, and smiled outside City Bakery, and got to have treats, coffee, lemonade, and iced tea supplied intermittently, gratis. All while sharing bikes with anyone who wanted one.

How does a bike share system work? In many different ways, in many different cities. Briefly, what we did was have four stations: riders picked up at one, dropped it off at another location, or at the same station, and returned it within half an hour. For free. Free.

All of this was organized by the Forum for Urban Design, The Storefront for Art and Architecture, Transportation Alternatives, and CityBakery.

Maury Rubin, the owner of CityBakery, is not only a genius of palate and craft -- he's focused on sustainability. He created offshoots of his bakery, Birdbath, that are great examples of what CAN be done. They were great project partners -- many of their customers are cyclists -- who get a 25% discount on their purchases if they've ridden up.

Sarah, Brian, Aaron, and Ilene, some of the City Bakery team that makes the magic happen, took such good care of us that we didn't want to leave. But we did, each night tucking the bikes beneath their stairs.

And then in the morning we neatly styled them along the scaffolding. I never thought I'd appreciate scaffolding, but it provided ample shade and a solid anchor to lock the bikes up to.

* Thanks to Transportation Alternatives' Ambassador Elena, who showed us how to expertly park bikes.

The first morning was a little quiet, but while we waited, we were well-fed. Stefan was in slight disbelief that we were not just doing the meet and greet, but also the eat.

But after that slowish start, where the general response was "Free Bikes?" The project took hold, with many repeat "sharees". A few times our bike count got down to zero, which, while not the best way to demonstrate "bike sharing," felt pretty cool.

We'd wait for the riders to come back, eager to hear where they went, so we could share the ideas for routes with the next riders waiting for bikes.

We weren't the only ones waiting.

We did our best to keep the growing line of anticipating sharees happy. We gave them cookies.

Note: when BikeShare launches, you will probably not get a cookie with your bike.

purge

2008-07-08T15:11:00.000-04:00

It was time a long time ago that this should have been done, but I'm finally coming clean.

I've been carrying around file cabinets full of papers and articles through 4 states and 7 homes.

When I started "clipping," the internet, for me, did not exist. It was 1992, I had started working as a cook, and my then boyfriend and I had a worthy competition -- who could find the most interesting articles to save and share. I have been carrying around Molly O'Neill's NYT Magazine articles (2 years worth) for 16 years.

I have my tax returns from 1993.

I have every job manual from every job I've had ( a file cabinet in and of itself).

I have the research I did on every country I visited from June 2000 to June 2001: Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Burma, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Nepal, India, Israel, France, and England. All of this material can now be found online.

The twenty pounds of paper I have in my possesion, 2 square feet of my 475 sq. ft apartment, is being tossed out.

What I'm keeping:

Jerry Garcia's obituary
a drawing of me riding a motorcycle
The Woody Allen photo I had to send away for
Every piece of writing I've ever written or published
A folder: "15 minutes," in which I stashed the media-praised success/misfortune of those I've known
Wedding invitations
Single-subject food research, each with a dedicated folder: sushi, cheese, smoked salmon, artichokes, pumpkins, cherries, the list goes on...

What can't be found online, and needs to, title of this post, be purged:

2 years worth of manipulative-psycho mail from an ex's mother
menus from take-out stores along the Eastern seaboard
folders themselves (though this true waste makes me cringe)
the collateral for a non-profit a friend started and stopped
a photo of an old love from when he was 5 years old

Someday I'll scan most of what I'm keeping. I think.

rum punch, cap juluca style

2008-07-08T08:41:00.000-04:00

this recipe will serve 100 friends & family

at a weekend-long party on a stretch of beach, accompanied by magnificent sunrises & sets and dance-all-day and night music

Fruit Punch:

46 ounces pineapple juice

46 ounces orange juice

14 ounces guava juice

18 dashes Angustora bitters

1/3 cup grenadine

1/3 cup lime liqueur

Rum:

84 ounces Dark Rum

24 ounces Amaretto

Rum Punch Methodology:

Stack a 12-ounce glass with ice

Add rum mixture 1/4 way up the side

Top with the fruit punch

Garnish with Cherry and Orange Slice

Throw Caution to Wind

why not all the time

2008-07-03T13:32:00.000-04:00

Faced with needing to rid myself of some items in my fridge before I go away this weekend, and never wanting anything to spoil, I crafted a curious lunch.

I had some onions, some eggs, garlic, and milk all of which were about to turn.

I remembered that Beatrice from Gustiamo had given me Latini Macheronelli, and all of a sudden, I'm thinking fideuas, and I'm really, really excited. I didn't know what to do first, so I stepped back, and thought for a moment. I was hungry, and I wanted to make it happen fast.

I put a pot of water up to boil, and broke the macheronelli into smaller pieces so they'd cook quicker.

I had a minor "eureka" moment. Why not put the milk into the water, and lower the boiling point of the water to speed things up? What would Harold say? It worked. That and some coarse sea salt, and I was off.

I should be more like Judith Jones, I thought, as I stirred the macheronelli into the milky water (at a boil). She didn't need another person around to keep her in the kitchen, and she wrote a gorgeous, poetic book about it.

Other ingredients creep into the mix. My new nettare olive oil, my red hot chili pepper flakes.

I drained the pasta in my makeshift steamer-colander. Made a mental note to buy a proper colander, give up trying to recover items from ex.

I sliced onions into calm, beautiful half-moons in the afternoon light.

I sauteed the onions with garlic, in the fancy oil and a pat of pricey French butter. (Channel Julia Child, do not let them color).

Add a couple of eggs, beaten, for protein.

Since it is starting to cook a little on the edges and the albumen starts to stick, you might think of Italian fried rice, and may, like me, all of a sudden want the color of fideuas. If this happens, add a drop of soy sauce.

Do all of this over low heat. Unless you have a powerhouse stove, and then over the lowest, lowest heat.

Plate. Both au naturel and with chili peppers were pleasing. I realized, stepping back, that this is just a variation on a theme of my comfort food.

Why not cook for one all the time?

Why not add milk to pasta water all the time?

These things I do not know yet.

* apologies for formatting issues...links to clarify TK. I am out the door for 3 days. back with island stories. happy 4th.

beer here?

2008-07-03T08:00:00.000-04:00

To find out why beer has always made me fall asleep, I turned to Harold McGee, figuring he would have the clearest (or at least most accurate) answer.

I've always avoided drinking it. It's not the most social thing to decline, but it's also not sociable to sleep in one's suds. Last night, this was what lay in my fridge, leftovers from my birthday party last summer.

All that and a bowl of frosting.

I took the middle one. On a hot, sticky night in NYC, a little past midnight, trying to straighten up my flat and pack for Anguilla, I think "I'll have a Heineken." Literally, like the bad commercial with a really memorable line. With each sip (um, gulp, I was thirsty as heck, and water was not helping) I thought I was going to pass out before I could finish it.

In reading my "On Food and Cooking," I find out plenty of answers -- and that my initial assumption from years back is correct, that what makes me tired is the hops. I mostly thought this since they're not present in anything else I drink, and nothing else makes me feel so instantly sleepy.

I'm finding lately that craft beers don't make me feel tired, and this is what I find most curious. At the moment, my only guess is that they are not overprocessed and over-conditioned, that they contain a balance of barley, hops, and other elements in a better ratio than commercially produced beers.

McGee of course has forty pages devoted to the chemistry of compounds and taste, so I'll report back, but I spied this tasty tidbit in that I couldn't resist sharing:

"During the 18th Century tea came to replace ale at the English breakfast table, and soon the custom of afternoon tea caught on. in 1700, England imported 20,000 pounds of tea, in 1800 the figure was 20 million pounds (his emphasis, not mine). Not everyone was pleased with this huge shift in drinking habits, WIlliam Cobbett thought that good beer was infinitely preferable to tea. He wrote in Cottage Economy (1821) that

"The drink, which has come to supply the place of beer, has, in general, been tea. It is notorious, that tea has no useful strength in it; that it contains nothing nutritious; that it, besides being good for nothing, has badness in it, because it is well-known to produce want of sleep in many cases, and in all cases to shake and weaken the nerves."

Persuasive. The Anti-Tea league. The protests didn't do much -- as McGee noted, today the British still consume more than twice the amount of tea per capita than the Japanese. I can only think we must drink our share in Coke.

post food show food

2008-07-02T08:01:00.001-04:00

This will be a dry post, which fits well, since I'm drying out. Until tomorrow, when I head to Anguilla for B & M's wedding.

There is nothing like a meal beyond a food show. After four days of setup, nibble, serve, nibble, meet, greet, taste, talk, talk, taste, talk, besides water, I want nothing in the Javits Center but water. Water, thank you.

*For those of you out there who say water isn't "good for you," well, neither are many other liquids, and I'm sticking with H20 for now.*

I had four proper meals between Saturday and today:

1) a not-really-but let's call it a meal (fantastically delicious) wine & cheese party for my mom's 60th birthday:

my brother and his wife are moving, so the party also gave us the impetus to sample the cellar

and partake in necessary complements.

2) a burger with Chris at my man P.J.'s

3) a poached egg with Andrea from Sant' Eustachio Caffe

4) and a falafel with Eli Valley

The Fancy Food show is an awesome opportunity to showcase products

And an exhausting but rewarding opportunity to converse with a quarter of the US packaged foods industry. Gustiamo fills the void of Italian artisan products. I helped them with the meet and greet, and connected them with a few of my friends in the meantime. Surprise of the show: getting to see Judy, ex-Martha, who was in from Tulsa. She's opening a store next month there.

done. Total success.

Today, at Gustiamo, there is an informal coffee Klatch, via telephone, with Andrea from Sant' Eustachio of Roma. Brew your own cup, or bring in an icy one, and give him a call. He is quite charming, and extremely knowledgable. And he will share his tiramisu recipe with you.

Morandi, My Baby, and JR

2008-06-27T05:42:00.000-04:00

A night out with JR always makes me feel like a rock star.

It was the launch of Larry's new show, Three Delivery. We watched it on the wall of his living space, above his workplace/workspace , Animation Collective. The show is gorgeous. I couldn't hear well enough -- but the imagery was gripping. It launched Friday on Nicktoons.

Wherever JR sits seems to have a spotlight overhead, since her energy radiates in and out, stretching across any room.

This is not infatuation, it is observation. Maintaining this quality at a place like Morandi, our next stop of the evening, is quite something, and I was more entranced by this phenomena that night than the food.

Sure, Keith McNally makes almost everyone look good, and feel this, in any place he creates. But when Hal Rubenstein and a Miller sister are at the tables next to you, and you're the one being stared at, well, it's a weird and enjoyable feeling. You know the party, even of three, is at your table.

We had reasons to be celebratory and innerly wired -- Brian's book has hit #2 on the TimeOut summer reading list. JR says it's dirty. Well.

As I'm rounding up 3 days of parties and excess, the feeling at that table is what I remember most. Great food is enhanced by great personalities. I will say the meal was "great," but no more, though it was accompanied by a scene I'll take with me.

The scene was on my plate: It was the first time since converting from veganism, that I could not bring myself to eat a piece of food. A baby octopus placed before me that's head was bulbous and obviously full of ink. Seeing my surprise at the size, JR noted was not a baby, but a "teenager". I did eventually manage to eat it. The adventuress in me really worried for a moment -- if I bowed down from this polipetti teen, there would be opportunities ahead that would be harder to face, that in the long run this was easy.

We did not make it further into the night, to party with Patrick McMullan, as our trio lost speed. A good thing, since Alexis, the real rock star, had her birthday Saturday night.

How to Cook a Pumpkin in an Audi

2008-06-23T22:18:00.001-04:00

Ingredients:

1 Audi 1.8 (turbo optional)

1 large pumpkin, stem on

1 highly incompetent police force

Method:

Just before Halloween, park your vehicle in a well-lit, well-heeled neighborhood.

Pop the hood to confirm that this is your engine. It is. It should look the same in 7 months.

Upon closer inspection, note that bugs may try to infiltrate the process -- do not let this deter you, they will not make it past the grill.

Your car is now in a legal spot. Trust that it won't be moved.

Regardless of whether it's moved or not, you will be able to cook your pumpkin in an Audi. This is a foolproof recipe.

Place your pumpkin in the trunk, uncovered. Allow as much sunlight to hit it as possible.This is a slow-cook method. The cool winter nights and sunny days provide the perfect baking conditions.

In 7 months, your pumpkin will be a bit moldy, but you will easily be able to extricate the top, holding from the stem, to reveal perfectly roasted seeds.A great addition to any party.

You may meet a nice man at the tow pound named Keith. If you are chipper, he will wash your car. Having sparkle polish on your toes will help, too.

His quick-clean will ensure that you can sit in the car long enough to drive the pumpkin to its destination.

Once you drive to your destination, do not turn the car off. 7 months is a long, long time. It's perfect pumpkin timing, and excellent battery drainage timing. You should need a new battery by now.

This man is always right. You turned the car off. He didn't tell you not to, but you knew when you told him he wouldn't be impressed. He's as excited as you that the pumpkin is cooked, and wants to get it and the seeds to a party as quickly as possible.

Your support team will try for a running start to get the engine going, though he knows it will be unlikely to get it going fast enough.

But the pumpkin: it is cooked, and the story's almost done. Half of it is in the tellling.

At last inspection, the team is still awaiting provisions, and a battery. More at the next check point.

Crave.

2008-06-23T05:00:00.000-04:00

I just miss it.

http://myswizzlesticks.blogspot.com/2008/05/el-celler-de-can-roca.html

In Defense of Amazon?

2008-06-22T23:13:00.000-04:00

As a contradiction of sorts: a newly hatched blogger and an eager-to-stay local gal, I'm dismayed to write this, a support of the "amazon store". It seems like a vicious circle I'm becoming part of, you order Michael Pollan's "In Defense of Food", and I get $1.02. It happened. Thanks to my mom, who helped me test it out, because I was really doubtful of the big A. I do wonder what Michael Pollan's portion is. I hope that it's at least twice that, since he really put more work into the book than I have into my "Amazon Store". Then again, is he here, day after day, saying "friends!", "family!", "buy my book!"? Well I am, and for that I get a dollar and two cents.

Shill for my store. If you shop here, I get bucks. A small payment for my writing. Anytime you click on my amazon tabs or in my "store" itself, it starts.

Amazon.com Widgets

I'm not sure that I like how this works. In fact, I'm sure, but I haven't find a way through, out of, or around it yet. I thought I should announce this here.

Many who blog have joined amazon associates so that we share a percentage of the sale for bringing the viewer to the site. The reality is, if you read blogs, you may not be making it to the corner store to buy a book, but may make a book purchase (still a good value statement) by clicking clicking clicking. That means that if you buy one of the books in my store, or even if you just click through and buy something else, I get about 7% of what you buy. I'll take you out for coffee -- and hope that you keep enjoying what I write. It doesn't amount to much, but it's something.

iHam iJam

2008-06-20T15:15:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure how I missed this, but then again, I wasn't flogging or spending much time online in February. Now, having seen the hams of Spain, it makes me laugh even more -- as they do take their ham very seriously. Make sure to read the instruction manual.

Vosgesing: Soho; Beer Tutorial

2008-06-19T11:13:00.001-04:00

This is not about chocolate. This is about chocolate and bacon beside beer.

I have my new friend Chris to thank for inviting me to this event -- a strange mix of ideas and people in the Vosges store -- which is, as we later decided, aesthetically comparable to what Prince's bedroom must look like.

Vosges Chocolate and Nueske's Bacon: winning ingredients, winning combination. A trademark Vosges pairing, as they're a company that brings us chocolate and curry, chocolate and chili, chocolate and ginger and mustard and you name it, and well, bacon. There now are many, but they were the most-publicized first.

Chocolatier and owner Katrina Markoff, as explained by Lauren Miller, who ran the event, recalls her chocolate chip pancakes meeting syrup and bacon, and, well, that was the best part -- the one that she had to recreate. This evening was a focused tasting -- all things bacon and chocolate -- different parings -- with different craft beers. As I am a total beer novice, Chris walked me through the beers -- at Vosges, and beyond, into a late night at Spitzer's Corner*.

I was the first one at the store besides the people hosting the event, so I took some photos. They were the only-non grainy photographs of the evening

* at Spitzer's Corner: A pint of Rogue Chipolte: but delicately spiced with chipotle chile peppers -- amber in color with malty, peppery aroma -- the heat sits and lingers at the back of your throat.

Citymeals on Wheels

2008-06-17T11:50:00.000-04:00

My brother and I hung out and dined beneath the tent with the stars last night at Rockefeller Center. We stood in puddles of water, Pernod-Pearls in our hands, and Chris Lacey of Rogue Brewery by our side.

It was the annual Citymeals-On-Wheels Benefit -- This year, the idea this year was that America's "star" chefs saluted the masters of French cuisine...there were a ton of chefs there whose food we tried and didn't take photos of, or whom we just passed by.

Any errors in spelling are mine. Two months later, I'm finally catching up with myself and have catalogued all the food, whether we sampled it or not.

Many of us who received the invitation and tickets thought it was gorgeous and impressive, but also wasteful and unnecessary. The $10+ dollars (minimum) that it costs to create and ship each would be better of given to Citymeals-on-Wheels. Note to CoW: Follow the benefit trend and go online next year.

Some present and some accounted for:

Joël Antunes, Oak Room at The Plaza Hotel (New York): Tomato Gazpacho with Tomato Sorbet and Basil

David Bouley, Bouley (New York, NY):

Franck Deletrain, Café Centro (New York, NY)
Christian Delouvrier, La Goulue
Christian Delouvrier (Bal Harbour, FL)

Joachim Splichal & Theo Schoenegger, Patina Restaurant Group/Patina Restaurant (Los Angeles, CA)
Laurent Tourondel, BLT RestaurantsJean-Georges Vongerichten, Jean Georges (New York, NY)Bob Waggoner, Charleston Grill (Charleston, SC)
Roland Passot, La Folie / Left Bank (San Francisco, CA)
Bill Peet, Aretsky’s Patroon (New York, NY): Salmon Mousse, marinated salmon, sweet & sour cucumbers
Alfred Portale, Gotham Bar & Grill (New York, NY)
Antonio Prontelli & Juan Branez, Rock Center Café/ Cucina & Co. (New York, NY)
Michel Richard, Citronelle (Washington D.C.)
Nancy Silverton, La Brea/ Mozza (Los Angeles, CA)

Henry Meer, City Hall (New York, NY)
David Myers, Sona (Los Angeles, CA)Luc Dimnet, Brasserie (New York, NY)
Todd English, Todd English’s Olives (New York, NY)
Tony Esnault, Adour at The St. Regis Hotel (New York, NY)

Jonathan Waxman, Barbuto (New York, NY)

Jawn Chasteen & Michael Gabriel, The Sea Grill (New York, NY)

Ed Brown, eighty one (New York, NY)

Larry Forgione, An American Place (Wynn Las Vegas / St. Louis, MO)
Vincent Guerithault, Vincent on Camelback (Phoenix, AZ)
Hubert Keller, Fleur de Lys (San Francisco, CA)

Some of our personal Star Chefs:

Paul Bartolotta, Bartolotta Ristorante di Mare (Wynn Las Vegas)

Note: Chef Paul was a catalyst to my career in food. At a lunch at Spiggia in Chicago, where he was the chef in 1991, my family told him I was a great cook, and how I'd love to be a chef. He leaned over and said "Don't tell your family I said this, but leave school and go to Europe. Work for free there -- when you come home, you'll get any job you want." I was off to Strasbourg and Le Crocodile. When I returned, it was into the arms (to start, for free) of Charlie Palmer.

Back into the arms again. While we talking, Nobu stopped by and told him he looked slim (he does), to which Charlie replied: "Nice to see you, Nobu". I think I might not say much more to the vogueish chef either. Nobu: smiley BOSS in black.

AJ and Chef Jean-Francois Bruel plated for Daniel Boulud, Daniel (New York, NY): a barely visible in this photo Cervelas Truffe et Pistache.

If you banned foie gras from this event, you'd have had 12 dishes, tops. Ban lobster and you could reduce that number to 4 -- and they'd all be desserts.

Terrance Brennan, Artisinal Fromagerie & Bistro/ Picholine (New York, NY): A cheese stuffed zucchini blossom with basil sauce. Looks like a worn pickle.

Shoulder brushing of the night -- David with Tom Colicchio, Craft (New York, NY), and, of course, top chef...David is a fan...

Some other things we ate before our low-light-Pernod-infused haze set in:

Traci des Jardins, Jardinière (SF, CA): Foie Gras, Lobster & Truffle Salad

Jean Joho, Everest (Chicago, IL): Hure of Suckling Pig, Sauce Ravigote

David Burke, davidburke & donatella (New York, NY): Warm Kumamoto Oysters with Duck Gizzards & Crispy Duck Tongue (top), Duck from Head to Toe Dumpling with Foie Gras and Raisin Juice

This benign pour from Trinchero Family Estates

David with Chris Lacey of Rogue Brewery

Those delicious and colorful Rogue Brews. At this point, I hadn't tasted any, full on the concoction below, and having tasted through the food, I wasn't up for it. Flashing forward, I've sampled about 12 of them. Top pick: Chipolte Ale. With a smoky nose and a lingering but pleasant finish, it's great on it's own, paired with medium cheddars, or my favorite, semi-sweet chocolate.

At the cocktails booth: Nemesis Mixologist, master of the Pernod Pearl (more like the Pernod Haze).

The Pegu Pearl: A creation by Audrey Saunders, proprietress of Pegu Club, who is the Beverage Director of the evening.

Nice run-in with mentor Tony Fortuna and Arthur Bacall

Thanks to Laura & John Pomerantz, who, year after year, really help make this night happen.

How to Rid One's Self of the Hiccups

2008-06-14T22:58:00.000-04:00

My mom's been telling me this my whole life. A brilliant demonstration.

Thanks, Marcy/Mommy -- here's looking at you ; )

the day after

2008-06-14T12:59:00.000-04:00

I love being 30.

I had a Jess-cooked dinner, I sing praises of her nutty long-grain rice. It is fantastic. Toothy and rich -- she sautees mushrooms, then tosses them with Lundberg 12-grain cooked in chicken stock, though she says last night she forgot the stock and just used water.

When you're tired from a week-long trip camping in the Grand Canyon, things like this happen. You forget ingredients, you don purple wigs.

Violet/Jess serves her trademark rice beside poached salmon, and sauteed zucchini. I contributed my good appetite, and a young Carneros Pinot.

It was the best meal I've had in a long time. It was cooked by and in the home of a great friend, and nothing beats that.

I got to kiss the cook.

And then we had a visit from a lovely character from the neighborhood.

Not only is he extremely funny,

but he is also tragically hip.

guilt

2008-06-14T11:58:00.000-04:00

It's not yet 5 p.m., but yesterday, I had a mainstream, branded-breakfast in the Park:

And technically, fast-food, for lunch

(v for vegetarian and verygood)

licorice

2008-06-13T08:13:00.000-04:00

I love licorice. Black licorice. It's my go-to candy of choice.

Red, not so much.

How does a former sweet tooth explain this not-so-sweet affair?

It didn't start out this way. Madonna and I never had much in common -- I turned in my rubber bracelets (but kept the "Like a Virgin" t-shirt) in eighth grade. For many years though, even past college, our favorite candy was the same -- hot tamales. Occasionally I drifted to fireballs -- as a smoker (socially, of course) my tastebuds were so numb that I liked the fiery hot, and even penned short fiction to laud it.

As a vegan -- yes, the smoking, (wanna be) anarchical vegan, I claimed sugar, once rehabilitated, as my drug of choice. Give me jellybeans or give me death.

Like most kids, though, I never liked black licorice. Like opera and whole fish, sometimes these things take time.

With the great black candy, I am already there.

It blends into my life and palate perfectly. Travel to any country, and they have their own version. The salty versions of the Netherlands intrigue me, but more for the wow factor -- I like the oddity of it.

Since the first time I worked at Whole Foods, I’ve strived to be additive and preservative free. There are occasional slip-ups and allowances – roadside hot dog stands, birthday cakes that you feel bad saying no to, movie popcorn with a date who just doesn’t get it…licorice needs no excuses.

There are myriad medicinal uses and profound history:

My medicinal use was for a long time limited to sucking on the root to abate smoking cravings.

And then as a breath freshner out of these cool French candy tins I'd buy when home from college. Like everything else, they're available from Amazon.

I'm ending my ode to licorice -- it is not for breakfast, not in my book. But I share this with you this morning, as last night, I didn't leave Jennifer's house without some goodies. A knockout writer and entertaining guru, she's the recipient of non-stop books to review and tasty treats to sample. The toxic licorice she slipped into my bag was intended for the doorman of her building, whom we assumed would eat anything, preservatives or not. I took the offending candies home, having some other ideas for them.

Midnight art projects.

Everything is good for something.

Where Coffee Starts

2008-06-12T09:27:00.001-04:00

Seven years ago, I stumbled across these coffee beans in Munduk, Bali, thinking they were berries.

Being as curious as I am about new foods and sources, I tasted one. It was like a sour, penetrable rock, with an aftertaste of chalk.

Very different from my morning joe that it becomes.

This is on my life long to-do list of processes to learn. How bean travels to morning brew.

Bruni Bashes Again

2008-06-11T09:12:00.000-04:00

To be filed under H: hilarious, horrifying, hit man.

Credit goes to my brother for waking me up with this review.

Ago

scarpetta-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a

2008-06-11T09:05:00.001-04:00

When the ringing in my ears subside, I can give this restaurant a more thoughtful review.

The service was graceful and attentive, save for the one busboy who masterfully averted our gaze with each flyby.

The food was tasty and traditional -- no surprises, just delights.Having done his homework, Scott Conant's put on about 50 pounds, and is even more handsome.

We had a table for seven that at most places would seat four -- it was better to hear ourselves with, and we had plenty of room.

But my ears hurt. The sound travels up and away into a vacuum-like atrium. Apparently this will change soon; either way we'll go back.

355 West 14th Street, (212) 691-0555.

Gazpacho Casa Hoey

2008-06-10T08:04:00.000-04:00

How to start off a meal on a 100 degree day?

My answer is likely obvious, but: Gazpacho.

Saturday, even though some of the hosts sugggested the acidity of gazpacho was not for them, they boldly plowed forward, knowing that this soup could be recipeless, fun, quick, and not keep them in a sweat.

We blanched our garlic so it wasn't too strong, and used the same boiling water to blanch the tomatoes prior to peeling them.

Serves 6

12 plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and diced, strain and save juice

1 English cucumber, peeled, seeded and diced

2 red bell peppers, chopped

1 28- ounce can whole peeled plum tomatoes, seeded

4 cloves garlic, peeled and blanched

1/2 small vidalia onion

2 tablespoons lemon juice

tablespoon cumin

salt and pepper to taste

cilantro leaves and avocado for garnish

sour cream for garnish

Combine diced tomatoes and cucumber in a large bowl.

Puree peppers, garlic, onion, and canned tomatoes (we used these because the season hasn't yet kicked in here in the East, and needed some more color and flavor -- you don't need to, just add 8 tomatoes to the recipe if you're using all fresh) in a food processor. Add to tomato-cucumber mixture. Add lemon juice and cumin, and salt and pepper to taste.

Serve in small bowls, top with avocado, cilantro, and sour cream. We didn't use sour cream this weekend, but as Fiona suggested, it's a great complement , and balances the aciditiy of the tomatoes.

With my extra gazpacho, I make ice cubes, to either put in outdoor-served future gazpacho, or for bloody marys -- a great melting tradition for any Sunday morning.

Brandade - Bacalao - Botafumeiro

2008-06-05T07:55:00.000-04:00

Bacalao, dried salt cod, in the Mercat de la Boqueria in Barcelona

What now feels like many, many years ago, David Pasternack taught me how to cook. My mom gets initial credit, but David walked me through buying my first chef's knife, bought me Larousse Gastronomique, and talked me out of vegetarianism. This last rite of passage with a simple "you think you're going to be a chef and not eat meat?" as he handed me, right out of the tilt skillet, my first taste of osso buco.

Of everything I learned from him at (the long gone) Prix Fixe, during visits to Picholine and Esca, of , one item stands out clearest and dearest: bacalao, dried salt cod, and brandade. I've never come across it without recalling the first time I tasted it.

My Larousse is my most thumbed-through reference book. In it, I'd learned that brandade is a puree of salt cod ( in French, morue). Brandade de morue is a of Provençal dish made with olive oil, garlic, milk and cream. Many recipes call for potato puree -- a cheap way to get out of rehydrating all that fish. Occasionally other salted or smoked fish will be used to make brandade.

Once you've made your brandade, which is also what they call it in Spain, you can make buñuelos of it, buñuelos de bacalao. Lovely.

This one, of Botafumeiro, in Barcelona.

Recounting the rest of that meal, which was like a "Spain's Greatest Hits," I started with these, and croquetas de marisco (shrimp croquettes),

then a centollo that my dad and I shared. Kosher readers, cover your eyes.

Fideos, small noodles boiled in rich broth, tossed with scallops, shrimp, and string beans.

We of course drank too much wine -- I can't even remember what wine or what followed, but I recall we walked downhill, along Avenida Gracia, admiring the windows of shop after shop filled with clothes that we'd never fit into, or be able to afford with the rising Euro. Our bellies were happy, it mattered little.

The bacalao is still at the front of my mind -- even before that shocking red spider crab.

Tuna With the Almost Marrieds

2008-06-04T08:05:00.000-04:00

A woman walks into a bookstore and says "Do you have "How To Be a Perfect Husband" or "How To Be a Perfect Wife"?

The bookseller replies "a Perfect Husband" will be here Friday, but to be a Perfect Wife will take a little longer."

And how.

As I overheard this exchange, I couldn't help but think about two friends who are getting married soon. They have already mastered many techniques detailed in the book, one of which is not to push too much. Mine would be don't push too much new food, too soon, if ever. The wife to be knows this, and how to do both, better than I.

She loves to put pecans in her tuna salad. When, as we sat down to the table, I announced that I thought this was cool, she said "shhh...if you don't tell him, he won't know".

I thought maybe he would have wondered what the brown things were, anyway, but some guys don't question, and she may have been right.

As for me, I wondered how it could be so salty, since we hadn't added any salt. We mixed the salad with Maille mustard and Hellman's mayo, which of course have salt, but then we added diced celery and black pepper. The tuna itself, I found out 3 days later, upon inspecting a can at the market, was the culprit.

Soy, vegetable broth, salt, water. [Salt (and why?), salty, salt, and water].

A better alternative? Beatrice's fancy imported tuna. At the rate I eat it (twice a year?), it will not break the bank.

This Could Be Your Cake, Too

2008-06-03T09:15:00.000-04:00

This is not your cake, but it could be.

Inspired by Jason's love of "Crunchies" and all things chocolate, I built this cake for his birthday, via Nancy of Nathan & Moe. She has good taste.

But enough about them.

I'd like to make one for you. A random drawing, just for fun.

This cake:

Marshmallow and Crunchy Filling, Deep Chocolate Layers, Coconut Frosting, Crunchies dotting the rims, and a Cookie Inscription Board.

What more could you want?

Send me an e-mail (aspenici@yahoo.com) with your name, birthday, and your own favorite flavors, or choose Jason's Crunchy Cake.

The winner will be chosen at random on my birthday, July 30th.

The cake I will bake you is for 25 people, and can be delivered anywhere in the 5 boroughs.

Happy early Birthday, and good luck.

Death Across the Fire Escape

2008-06-02T22:12:00.000-04:00

There will be no food in this but the food behind me. I write from my kitchen, where I'm watching a neighbor die across the way.

We are separated by a fire escape. My neighbor's apartment is large -- and I only see the living room.

I go to my fridge to get water, I walk to put something on the stove, I water a plant on my windowsill, I can't help but check on their progress. I boil an egg.

*****

I've seen a woman pace the apartment, day and night. I have imagined her as sex worker, masseuse, or writer; I do not feel that she owns the apartment. Today she is a hospice nurse wearing a "Join the Movement" t-shirt. The person that she is taking care of is just out of sight, in a room deeper in to the apartment, that I cannot see. She is not the one who has multiple sclerosis, for which that slogan stands.

*****

Evening. I see the dying neighbor's friends sitting in the living room. There have never been guests in this apartment as long as I've known this view. They are finally here, paying their last respects. Maybe they are too late, sitting shiva.

The tequila bottle, usually on the cocktail table is missing. The table itself has been moved aside to make room for the visitors.

******

Morning. There will be a tag sale! No. Things will be put in boxes. All of the glassware, the utensils, kitchen items, are moved into the living room, on display on the side table.

No. The fridge comes out. It sits by the window. Maybe this is just another renovation?

Photos are omitted to protect the innocent.

searching for slivovitz

2008-05-30T15:00:00.000-04:00

Last year I went to Vienna. And Budapest. And Prague. The mission was to visit Cousin Peter but also to have a first glance at and dip into Eastern and Central Europe. We (Grandma Flo, Grandpa Abe, Uncle Arthur, Aunt Jane, and I), had a whirlwind tour of these cities, seeing, eating, drinking, and hearing as much as possible in 9 days. I wish our band of fairly merry, faithfully curious Jews had this:

Next time I plan to pack one. Disclaimer: It's written by a friend. My search on this trip, was different one, personal, in spirit and palate.

I was into drinking. No foe of esoteric and local spirits, I had just left my job as the Bar Manager at The Little Nell in Aspen, Colorado, where I'd spent 2 years drinking as many different beverages I could find, while trying not to drink the same thing twice. Except Pechuga, Mezcal, and Mirto.

(My mentor of the vine and grain, Richard Betts, is working on some Mezcal that I will properly party with here in the East. His Chronique was recently voted one of the top 25 Australian wines, so I eagerly await what he creates with agave.)

Richard, Jason, and Jay, some of Colorado's "finest," taught me to be curious. I searched high and low in Hungary to find Slivovitz. Finally saw it, never drank it. At KG Wines, here, live on Madison Avenue, I spotted Slivovitz last week, and thought I'd recreate an experience I'd never really had. If you do this, take it with food.

Not only is it (mark your calendars for 2009) Kosher for Passover, but it is lethally potent, at 40 % alcohol. It is like a plum sake in its finish, in it's fragrance, but it is as raw as bathtub gin. Mix it with dark ginger beer and apple juice, 1 to 1 to 1, and you have an entirely different prospect. I'm calling it, tragically, a Slivovitz Sling.

biltong: new to me

2008-05-27T09:12:00.001-04:00

I've never been to South Africa, but it's been to me.

My brother's new family is mostly South African.

While we're learning plenty about that culture, I haven't learned a ton about the food.

My brother shared biltong with me before dinner on Friday.

Biltong is great before dinner. It's also great beside karaoke. I remembered this combination, karaoke and air-dried beef, from Vietnam. I picked at it, off of a white formica table in a dimly lit Hanoi room, the first meat I'd eaten in three months, before deciding that "All Out of Love" would be my go-to karaoke song forever. Forever.

In Hanoi, the air-dried beef is a bit greasier and more shredded, but it's the same idea.

Walking through Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, you'll see dehydrators around town with people turning over what we call, yes -- jerky. I know, there are many. I know breasola: italian; bundefleisch: swiss; pemmican: native american; batsurma: armenian; jerky: us

Verification from my bro determines that the biltung is usually from a mix of animals, among them, impala, kudu, wildebeest, zebra, etc. Et cetera. And delicious.

I've sent you to Wikipedia, for more info for now, but when I get my dehydrator, I'm going to give you whatever recipe I come up with, too.

pickled think

2008-05-22T03:05:00.001-04:00

I don't know where to begin or end this, but let's just say someday I'll forgive my brother for bailing. He could have been crushing this.

Though my brother's more likely to become a pro golfer than a pro eater, he IS a pro eater. He has faced worse bullies than this.

Today, he chose golf, over the United Pickle's Eating Championship at The Carnegie Deli.

You can probably tell who won by this video. If not, I'll send you another.

The judges judged very closely. Judge Adam, in black hat, was my "in", so even though my family wasn't representing, I had a front row crouch.

The competitors broke in to a fierce sweat. The crowd roaring and boomin' bass probably didn't help for the competitors' rhythm, but the energy was awesome.

The runner ups' attitude was awesome. Cute boy in the apron. What else would you want after a pickle eating contest besides a cigarette?

Most of us that were outside this morning got what we wanted. If you stand outside the Carnegie Deli long enough, watching that yellow and red sign flicker flicker flicker and you think for a second, and, well, usher you in, there you go, back room. It's that easy.

Once a year. Dr. Brown's. Cel-ray. I don't know why, but I like it. I used to be a cherry soda, but now I can't take the sweet and canned and carbonated all at once.

I didn't order the corned beef, but I loved it.

Judge Adam got what we ordered, pastrami.

If you need more descriptions on this particular post, let me know, I can school you privately. It's simple, really, though: mustard, rye.

In two years, when this happens again, both my brother and I may be at the competition table. I was not impressed by the amounts eaten. I will likely eat those words, but bring it. If any of you are competitive eaters, I apologize. I have our slogan ready.

enter michael, enter sfoglia

2008-05-20T19:21:00.000-04:00

For the past two days, I've been complaining a lot. About my coffee, about the disappearance of my siestas, and about the lack of ham in my diet.

But then one of those friends called that can always make me feel better about everything. And lucky us, we live equidistant (not very, that said) from Sfoglia.

We drank a palatable Trebbiano

At the cozy bar

We ate some killer olives

not housemade, but delicioso cured meats

and a sizzlin', sizzlin' manicotti.

Even the coffee was quiet good.

santo tomé mazapán

2008-05-20T18:10:00.002-04:00

My parents went to Toledo and they
brought me back this box of candy.

Toledo, Spain, home of marzipan.
I have know none like this before.

There are two kinds of people, Carolyn says,
those who've moved a lawn, and those who have not.

I believe there are two types of people, those who love marzipan, and those who don't. Betcha know my type. And I need to learn to mow a lawn.

Whether you like it or not, you have to love the shapes of these, true to their place: the ham, the fish, the bread, the pastry. Some are flavored with honey, the others plain.

They're not in the States yet, but you can visit them here. Visit them even if just for the music.

El Celler de Can Roca

2008-05-16T13:00:00.000-04:00

****I leant my Can Roca menus to a friend....when I get them back, I'll add on more food! My flavor memor serves well, but not for names****

Our merry band of 5 has learned that "Can" means "house of" in Catalan. It's the Castillian "Casa de," or "Chez". The Roca brothers are quite famous in food circles -- especially in the conversation of molecular gastronomy. One, Joan, co-wrote the book on sous vide*. Literally.

Chef Joan was in house tonight, but he was busy with a journalist, and we continued doing our great job of being ultra-anonymous. I liked it. If we were sent out any more courses, I'd have to buy new pants. Again.

(Added note: Chef Jordi, who I would have liked to meet, wasn't there the night we dined there. He was busy concocting pastries for a future acquaintaince of mine, along with a team of 6 others from around the globe. )

I loved the entrance, through a garden, which, though harnessing the need to recall memories while I'm making new ones, reminded me of TFL. How you'd walk through the garden, and could see the cooks busy in the kitchen, spotless, even before you reached the host stand.

It was a seamless experience -- we walked in, no questions, no apologies for being late, past a party of eight that arrived alongside us.

Talk about a dramatic space.

The food started soon after we were seated, even before there were menus in our hands. Herbed cracker-sticks and parmesan crisp balls and stuffed squash blossom/carrot garden pot -- each in a unique serving vessel, whimsical indications of what was to come. The presentations here were novel -- drama in every step.

Even before those were finished, we were presented with two more amusing bites -- a goose-liver-curry-cocoa dome, and an oyster veloute with basil oil.

Josep, who oversees wine, was around, but aloof. Though our chief speaks Spanish like a native, we remained under the radar. It gave us time to pour over things like the very serious tome of a wine list.

decisions, decisions

Out came the items we ordered:

Foie Gras Timbale Wrapped With Carmelized Apple

Oysters with Apple Compote, Ginger, Pineapple, Lemon Confit, then Agusti Torello Cava being added to them

High drama water bottles, before I learned from Jeff Kauck how to meter with my digital camera.

But David's dessert, while a gimmicky crack-up, really did blow me away. As bad as it could taste, it was great -- and tasting the "ash" alone, you realize it's on target, but it's good.

*Amazon is easy, but you can preferably buy Sous Vide from my friends and neighbors at Kitchen Arts & Letters. If you can't manage to click the link, here's their number : 212-876-8065. If you're into sous-vide, you can probably handle some technology. The book is a worthy wild ride through storage techniques, molecular gastronomy, and the current vogues of plate and palate.

Mas de Torrent

2008-05-15T20:56:00.000-04:00

We have set up camp at Mas de Torrent, which is everything we expect in an R & C property. I'd prefer not to pan it here, but we agreed El Castell de Ciutat was worn.

I am craving fruit, plain fruit, after our road food:

which was an easily balanced manchego, pan, jamon iberico. No wonder Jewcy hasn't written me back about being their food columnist.

We took these eats in, with olives, not pictured, before and after the Dali Museum in Figueres. For me, this was like visiting the Mona Lisa. The crowd was as much to look at as the art.

There are baskets of fruit lining the paths that lead to most rooms here. I'm in "Palmeras" 3, though, a path which has no fruit. I may walk to my parents, who are in "Naranjas 2". David and Lauren are in "Limones", and I'm not in the mood to suck a lemon. Yet.

While I was deciding which ones to raid just now, there was a knock at my door. This is how a truly good place works, right? They read your mind.

The bellman brought me this lovely little spread:

I am focusing on the fruit

in preparation for tonight's dinner.

the rain in spain

2008-05-14T18:15:00.000-04:00

I can't keep up. We've drunk our weight in coffee, and we're rolling from one tasty meal to the next. Fortunately, there are gyms and siestas in between.

It has been raining non-stop.

But there's plenty of color on the route, in and out of doors.

Angulas

2008-05-14T17:39:00.000-04:00

A picture's worth a thousand words? For me, the sound is worth all the words here. Per the "Marling Menu Master," we've been carrying around, Bilbao-Style Angulas, are "Baby Eels, sauteed in olive oil with a wisp of red pepper and crushed garlic, served still bubbling in an individual shallow casserole". Well done, by the Tres Portes in Seu D'Urgell. A husband served the meal while his wife cooked it. 10:30 at night, we were the first to arrive to dine. Serve it up.

drinking our weight in coffee

2008-05-14T15:45:00.000-04:00

We left Barcelona this morning for El Castell de Ciutat, in Seu d'Urgell, about an hour from the Andorran border.

Before we left, the barman at Pinotxo in El Boqueria served us of a story of his carrying the Olympic torch along La Rambla while he served us a tortilla sandwich.

They say tortilla, I say frittata. Either way: delicioso.

And of course we had another tallet, that favorable Catalan cappucino.

detour: cast of characters

2008-05-12T13:51:00.000-04:00

While I'm travelling, I will mention these names, and this is who they are:

From left to right, Lauren, Me, Dad or D2, David.

We started out the day at the Museum of Comtemporary Art -- where they give out these clever entrance stickers I likened to a band-aid.

Barcelona has a clever pick-up ride-to- drop-off cycle system, similar to those in many (modern) cities of the world. These are posted outside the museum.

Maybe someday in New York.

Alas, we are not biking, we are eating, and we are walking everywhere. Sometimes we walk WAY out of our way. We like to joke that we're working up to or off a meal. Here, it looks as if mom (the 5th of "us") might be leading us to train for America's Uphill, but we're just walking the long, very wrong way to Parc Guell to see Gaudi's work.

We walked along, alone, for a long time.

It was not our trusty navigator David's fault. We followed the one sign for Parc Guell that was posted outside the Metro, and then just kept walking. We didn't think anything of it that we were walking alone for an hour, asking people if we were going the right way. They kept telling us to walk further up the hill, so we did.

And then we finally came upon some other people.

Many other people.

This was more like it.

It was nice to have some quiet time on our own, though, and we headed towards that again, to Neyras, for lunch.

Marcy (mom) quickly got back to business with the menu. More food, same station, tune in later.

Our siesta to follow was spent watching a piano recital at the Palau.

can fabes*

2008-05-11T13:54:00.000-04:00

*will need further editing along swizzlesticks' path...

It should take 45 minutes to drive from Barcelona to Sant Celoni, town of restaurant Can Fabes, and the hallowed chef Santi Santamaria. It took us 2 hours. The drought in Spain ended with 2 days of rain. The roads were flooded, traffic was an unprecedented bumper to bumper, we drove aimlessly to get out of Barcelona, but we pressed on.

At 10.45 pm, as close to Spaniards we will ever come, we walked into the world's smallest Relais & Chateaux. Swathed in black and orange-tinted glass, with open kitchens, proprietary serving pieces, and tables far apart enough that you feel as if you're the only ones there, we were sold from the moment we sat down.

Having taken readily to the custom of siesta, we were fresh and ready to dine for 3 hours.

We started with a glass of Cava, Spanish sparkling wine, Can Fabes' own cuvee that they bottle in Penedes.

It was four courses and three pieces of bread into the meal when my father announced "do you realize we haven't even had our appetizers yet?"

A full plate of 6 amuse: left to right: Foie "chop", mini pita filled with bacalao, bluefin sushi, tapenade in phyllo, escargot, brandade with a pine nut.

fish consomme
crabcake
foie gras
ternera blanca

clockwise from top left: cochinillo, 3 sorbets, custard and caramel, bunuelos, petit fours, caramel cigars

el boqueria

2008-05-10T15:00:00.000-04:00

After an 8-hour flight to Barcelona on which I watched Juno twice, Lauren, David and I checked into the Hotel 1898 on La Rambla, and headed straight for the El Boqueria de la Mercat.

The "borough market" is reportedly the oldest public market in the world -- starting in the 1200s. We weren't getting too far into the history - it was 9 a.m. and we had tallats on our mind. A tallat is Barcelona's capuccino -- a shot of espresso, then milk, then foam -- a cortado in Castillian.

We chose the tapas bar Pinotxo from our guide book, and also from the fact that it was two-deep. We cued for stools.

We knew right away that we'd have the garbanzos

That Lauren needed a starchy croissant (and hey, why not a churro, too, with crema inside)

then we saw (and ordered) the chicherones - baby squid with beans

and the razor clams

And we know we're off to a good start. We followed our meal with a walk around the market.

barcelona and beyond, colman in my pocket

2008-05-09T12:00:00.000-04:00

I'm off for 9 days, though I'll post from the road.

This song will no longer hold true, as here I go.

This is my bible:

suckers

2008-05-09T11:43:00.000-04:00

I've been hitting the sugar pot alot lately, all in the name of lollipops.

They're quick & easy to make, and result in a fun gift for sweet lovers. Or for those who love sweets.

In sticking with my no-additive, no-preservative theme, I use lemon zest for flair, and natural lemon oil for flavor. I have classic wooden sticks on order, but for now I use a paper white stick, and wrap them in cellophane -- the only real boon to the earth. Come to think of it, maybe I should stick with the paper stick.

Moving right along, here's my process, and the simplest recipe imaginable.

I've experimented* with a few flavors (there's some thyme in the ones below), but I'm giving you the classic recipe and you can choose your own.

After I've laid out the molds, I rub them with olive oil -- I loathe vegetable sprays, and think that olive oil is fine -- the molds are meant to give once the sugar sets. I sprinkle a garnish in the cavities (pardon the word choice) which in this case is lemon zest. Once I pour the sugar in, I microplane a bit more zest atop the lollies' backs.

HARD CANDY LOLLIPOPS

2 cup sugar

2/3 cup light corn syrup

3/4 cup water

Oil flavors (optional) or flavored syrup

Color (optional)

Coat candy molds with olive oil.

Put sucker sticks in molds before pouring mixture.

In a saucepan, blend sugar, corn syrup, and water (If using syrup, add now).

Bring to a boil over high heat, until mixture reaches 290 degrees.

Remove pan from heat. Allow to stand until bubbles have simmered down. Add flavoring and color as desired.

Mold into desired shapes in hard candy molds. Work very fast.

Allow to set. This will take about 1 hour.

Wrap for giving, or lick away!

*I make syrups by steeping herbs in simple syrup, cooling them with the herbs in them, and straining through fine mesh. I've tried rosemary and thyme. I prefer using these to store-bought oils, as they're mellower and fresher in flavor. I use a 1:1:1 ratio when replacing the water and sugar with the flavored syrup. This is the only complex part of this equation.

all natural

2008-05-08T07:55:00.000-04:00

While the debate on "natural" labeling continues, Mr. Sprinkles will stand proud, the un-defined "all natural" proudly in red above his belly.

Ingredients: sugar, cornstarch, palm oil, cocoa, MONOGLYCERIDES, SOYA LECITHIN, confectioner's glaze, carnauba wax? Yikes. Give me the Hot Tamales, my (and Madonna's) favorite candy, over this.

I break for great packaging, though, and Mr. Sprinkles called my name. He's completely ridiculous, down to his red, backwards baseball cap. Does he taste good? He's yours for the asking. I don't do MSG.