It's too often I forget to eat proper food when I'm not working--I find myself content with a bowl of cereal in the morning, a cup of coffee (or three) and then nothing until Kristina gets home and I'm forced to address the fact that I haven't eaten all day and should probably figure something out for dinner.
More often than not (when we're being good) we'll have a big salad--last night was Caesar. I chopped the heads of romaine, grated Parmesan liberally with the microplane, shook out half a bag of croutons and tossed with Caesar dressing. Last night we used "Mrs. Cubbisson's" Garlic and Butter croutons. We didn't have our favorite Caesar salad dressing--that one is made by the Silver Palate, and you can find it at Citarella (it's nearly perfect).
We don't bother with things like croutons and emulsified dressings when we're at home, just the two of us. Maybe it's the curse of having worked in big professional kitchens for two long, but when it comes to emulsifications, I find it hard to make less than a quart, and if there's one thing you don't want to keep in your refrigerator too long it's a dressing made with cheese, raw eggs and anchovies. As for the croutons, let's just say that croutons from a bag are delicious (guilty pleasure or not)--come on, I'll be the first to admit, unless you're Wiley Dufresne (and willing to spend more on home made croutons then it's worth) "special seasonings" are really hard to replicate). Same goes for BBQ potato chips, although I will say that I've come pretty close.
Stay tuned tomorrow for our other standby weeknight salad...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Christmas
Something about the season, the shortening days, the darkness outside, the hope for a short winter and a quick spring. I watched the total eclipse of the moon on the twenty-first--the winter solstice. I thought of winters past, and on Christmas Eve, remembered an epic meal of Christmas Past.
I was ten, maybe eleven and my sister, who was five or six, was obsessed with the American Girl stories. One of the girls, Kirsten, was a Swedish immigrant, growing up in the Heartland. Of the innumerable products the series offered, my sister had been given a cook book featuring traditional Swedish dishes. One cold, dark, short winter Saturday, I poured through the cook book, made a shopping list, and led my mother to the store to make a traditional Swedish Feast for Santa Lucia, one of only a handful of Roman Catholic Saints venerated by the Scandinavians and maintained as part of their pre-Christian heritage.
I spent hours at the kitchen table with my mother watching over me, and finally we sat down to our mid-winter dinner--there were meatballs and scalloped potatoes and lingonberry jams and Swedish Pancakes and egg noodles and apple sauce. It was a triumph.
This year for Christmas, my fiancée and I drove to her parents' house in Golden's Bridge, New York. If you take the Metro North out of Harlem, east of the Hudson, Golden's Bridge is past Mount Kisco, past Chappaqua, past Katonah, over an hour north, one of the last commuter town's because of the distance.
It's an exurb more than a suburb, really, its cul de sacs and wooded areas and tree lined drives, and grand white houses reminiscent of Revolutionary Road. We spent Christmas Eve in Danbury, the nearest shopping center. I was going to re-create the Swedish Feast of my youth for Kristina and her parents--Kristina's parents are part Swedish, and culturally at least, grew up eating a lot of the more esoteric Swedish foods--Lutefisk and pickled herring, etc. In fact, Kristina and I fell in love baking together--in high school, I would stay over and Sunday Mornings we would make Swedish pan cakes together, huddled over the plett pan, dipping each airy crepe in powdered sugar and eating them hot as soon as they were done.
That night we had Swedish Meatballs with Gravy, Scalloped Potatoes, and a cucumber salad (made ahead and soaked in vinaigrette to nearly pickle the cucumbers and serve as a foil to the heavy meal). My brother in law doesn't eat beef, so we made turkey and chicken meatballs as a concession to his dietary restrictions, which despite going against my every instinct as a chef turned out not to be noticeably different from the traditional beef and pork. There was also a tofurkey for my sister in law, but we won't get in to that.
I didn't take strict notes on the recipe, but I can paint a broad stroke picture--really we made it up as we went along, which is of course all part of the joy of cooking--despite what the book might have you think.
Start with a couple of onions, some cloves of garlic and of course a handful of shallots. Small dice everything and sweat together with a little olive oil. Add water as needed to really keep them nice and translucent, and when the mirepoix (let's call it that for the simplicity's sake) is soft through, add a nice hunk of butter. Let it melt. Take half of the mirepoix and set aside to cool.
Meanwhile, in a sauce pan, add the rest of the mirepoix, some rosemary sprigs, and a quart of light cream, bring to a boil and turn off the heat. Peel and slice 4-6 potatoes, depending on the size. The potatoes should be about 1/4 inch thick and very uniformly sliced. You should have enough potatoes to layer in a standard sized casserole dish. Place the potatoes in overlapping layers, like a deck of cards spread out, moving from one side of the casserole to the other and continuing until you reach 3/4 of the way up the dish. Pour the cream over the potatoes, shaking the dish to make sure the cream settles over all of the slices, and place in the oven at 375 degrees, for about an hour and a half--the cream should start to boil and reduce. I used light cream, which doesn't hold up to heat as well as heavy cream--the cream will break a little bit (i.e. begin to curdle), but that's ok: it actually adds a nice textural contrast to the softness of the potatoes, which should be fork tender and practically melt in your mouth when done. After the potatoes are finished cooking, grate a generous amount of aged white cheddar cheese over the top and broil a minute or two to brown.
Next, make your meatballs. I used two packages of dark ground turkey meat and one package of light chicken. Mix together well in a bowl with two whole eggs, a splash of milk and your now cooled mirepoix. Chop a hand-full of parsley and a couple of sprigs of oregano. Season with a pinch of nutmeg, a scant pinch of ground cloves, hungarian sweet paprika, cayenne pepper, ground black pepper and a generous amount of salt. Mix together well and then add about seven slices of small-diced white bread, folded in as well as half a cup of bread crumbs. Test the seasoning as well as the texture by cooking off one small meatball. Adjust the seasoning as desired, and adjust the texture (if it's too soft) by adding more breadcrumbs. Fry the meatballs in batches, and finish cooking in the oven.
For the gravy, make a simple roux (one part flour to one part butter). Cook until golden brown and then whisk in chicken stock. Season with similar seasonings as the meatballs, and don't skimp on the salt. Add a splash of dry cooking sherry for a touch of sweetness.
The salad is simple and as I mentioned, should be made in advance and let sit to almost pickle the cucumbers. Slice one whole hot house cucumber into 1/4 inch slices and half a red onion. Add some halved cherry tomatoes. For the vinaigrette, mix 2 parts red wine vinegar to 5 parts olive oil. Season with salt and fresh ground black pepper. Pour over the salad and let sit.
We served our liberal take on a mid-winter's Swedish Feast (thankfully sans lutefisk and pickled herring) with sparkling cider and Hefeweizen, as well as a relish plate of bocconcini mozzarella, pickled peppadew peppers (say that five times fast), olives, carrots and celery.
For desert we had a simple rice pudding. Everyone added cinnamon sugar to taste.
Later, we sat in the living room. The Christmas tree filled the bay window. Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole sang their standards as the fire raged, every seat in the room turned towards the warming flames and we opened not one but two presents, late that Christmas eve.
I was ten, maybe eleven and my sister, who was five or six, was obsessed with the American Girl stories. One of the girls, Kirsten, was a Swedish immigrant, growing up in the Heartland. Of the innumerable products the series offered, my sister had been given a cook book featuring traditional Swedish dishes. One cold, dark, short winter Saturday, I poured through the cook book, made a shopping list, and led my mother to the store to make a traditional Swedish Feast for Santa Lucia, one of only a handful of Roman Catholic Saints venerated by the Scandinavians and maintained as part of their pre-Christian heritage.
I spent hours at the kitchen table with my mother watching over me, and finally we sat down to our mid-winter dinner--there were meatballs and scalloped potatoes and lingonberry jams and Swedish Pancakes and egg noodles and apple sauce. It was a triumph.
This year for Christmas, my fiancée and I drove to her parents' house in Golden's Bridge, New York. If you take the Metro North out of Harlem, east of the Hudson, Golden's Bridge is past Mount Kisco, past Chappaqua, past Katonah, over an hour north, one of the last commuter town's because of the distance.
It's an exurb more than a suburb, really, its cul de sacs and wooded areas and tree lined drives, and grand white houses reminiscent of Revolutionary Road. We spent Christmas Eve in Danbury, the nearest shopping center. I was going to re-create the Swedish Feast of my youth for Kristina and her parents--Kristina's parents are part Swedish, and culturally at least, grew up eating a lot of the more esoteric Swedish foods--Lutefisk and pickled herring, etc. In fact, Kristina and I fell in love baking together--in high school, I would stay over and Sunday Mornings we would make Swedish pan cakes together, huddled over the plett pan, dipping each airy crepe in powdered sugar and eating them hot as soon as they were done.
That night we had Swedish Meatballs with Gravy, Scalloped Potatoes, and a cucumber salad (made ahead and soaked in vinaigrette to nearly pickle the cucumbers and serve as a foil to the heavy meal). My brother in law doesn't eat beef, so we made turkey and chicken meatballs as a concession to his dietary restrictions, which despite going against my every instinct as a chef turned out not to be noticeably different from the traditional beef and pork. There was also a tofurkey for my sister in law, but we won't get in to that.
I didn't take strict notes on the recipe, but I can paint a broad stroke picture--really we made it up as we went along, which is of course all part of the joy of cooking--despite what the book might have you think.
Start with a couple of onions, some cloves of garlic and of course a handful of shallots. Small dice everything and sweat together with a little olive oil. Add water as needed to really keep them nice and translucent, and when the mirepoix (let's call it that for the simplicity's sake) is soft through, add a nice hunk of butter. Let it melt. Take half of the mirepoix and set aside to cool.
Meanwhile, in a sauce pan, add the rest of the mirepoix, some rosemary sprigs, and a quart of light cream, bring to a boil and turn off the heat. Peel and slice 4-6 potatoes, depending on the size. The potatoes should be about 1/4 inch thick and very uniformly sliced. You should have enough potatoes to layer in a standard sized casserole dish. Place the potatoes in overlapping layers, like a deck of cards spread out, moving from one side of the casserole to the other and continuing until you reach 3/4 of the way up the dish. Pour the cream over the potatoes, shaking the dish to make sure the cream settles over all of the slices, and place in the oven at 375 degrees, for about an hour and a half--the cream should start to boil and reduce. I used light cream, which doesn't hold up to heat as well as heavy cream--the cream will break a little bit (i.e. begin to curdle), but that's ok: it actually adds a nice textural contrast to the softness of the potatoes, which should be fork tender and practically melt in your mouth when done. After the potatoes are finished cooking, grate a generous amount of aged white cheddar cheese over the top and broil a minute or two to brown.
Next, make your meatballs. I used two packages of dark ground turkey meat and one package of light chicken. Mix together well in a bowl with two whole eggs, a splash of milk and your now cooled mirepoix. Chop a hand-full of parsley and a couple of sprigs of oregano. Season with a pinch of nutmeg, a scant pinch of ground cloves, hungarian sweet paprika, cayenne pepper, ground black pepper and a generous amount of salt. Mix together well and then add about seven slices of small-diced white bread, folded in as well as half a cup of bread crumbs. Test the seasoning as well as the texture by cooking off one small meatball. Adjust the seasoning as desired, and adjust the texture (if it's too soft) by adding more breadcrumbs. Fry the meatballs in batches, and finish cooking in the oven.
For the gravy, make a simple roux (one part flour to one part butter). Cook until golden brown and then whisk in chicken stock. Season with similar seasonings as the meatballs, and don't skimp on the salt. Add a splash of dry cooking sherry for a touch of sweetness.
The salad is simple and as I mentioned, should be made in advance and let sit to almost pickle the cucumbers. Slice one whole hot house cucumber into 1/4 inch slices and half a red onion. Add some halved cherry tomatoes. For the vinaigrette, mix 2 parts red wine vinegar to 5 parts olive oil. Season with salt and fresh ground black pepper. Pour over the salad and let sit.
We served our liberal take on a mid-winter's Swedish Feast (thankfully sans lutefisk and pickled herring) with sparkling cider and Hefeweizen, as well as a relish plate of bocconcini mozzarella, pickled peppadew peppers (say that five times fast), olives, carrots and celery.
For desert we had a simple rice pudding. Everyone added cinnamon sugar to taste.
Later, we sat in the living room. The Christmas tree filled the bay window. Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole sang their standards as the fire raged, every seat in the room turned towards the warming flames and we opened not one but two presents, late that Christmas eve.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Friday, March 21, 2008
The new yorker article on David Chang had a nugget of good news buried
in it for long time fans of the original Momofuku--the dressing down
he gave the cooks on a recent visit to his flagship kitchen. In the
past, the flagship was where the founding chef spent most of his time
(see babbo, Daniel, jean-georges). With momofuku though each new
venture took chang away from the original, and it showed. The last two
times I went dishes were noticeably off. On the last visit my pork
neck ramen was practically flavorless (an easy fix though, given
enough sea salt and soy sauce.) But my girl friend's scallop special
was beyond salty. The service, too was especially inattentive,
unforgiveable given it was a slow, midweek lunch. In any case, I
haven't been back. Given the degradation chang dishes out though, it
looks like its time. Let's hope the cooks took it to heart.
in it for long time fans of the original Momofuku--the dressing down
he gave the cooks on a recent visit to his flagship kitchen. In the
past, the flagship was where the founding chef spent most of his time
(see babbo, Daniel, jean-georges). With momofuku though each new
venture took chang away from the original, and it showed. The last two
times I went dishes were noticeably off. On the last visit my pork
neck ramen was practically flavorless (an easy fix though, given
enough sea salt and soy sauce.) But my girl friend's scallop special
was beyond salty. The service, too was especially inattentive,
unforgiveable given it was a slow, midweek lunch. In any case, I
haven't been back. Given the degradation chang dishes out though, it
looks like its time. Let's hope the cooks took it to heart.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Farm on Adderly
Wednesday night off from the restaurant, I have this standing date with a friend in Carroll Gardens. We usually eat at Fragole on Court St., although sometimes we pick up Chicken Parm at Vinnie's on Smith. After dinner we watch Lost at his place, guilty pleasure, I know, but I don't miss it. Anyway this week he couldn't make it, and I don't have cable, so I did what I often do when plans fall through--took myself out to dinner.
Now I've been reading a lot of MFK Fisher lately--I would quote her on this, but I've lent my girlfriend the book. And there's something about the way she ate alone, and something about her dignity and aesthetic and the way I feel when I'm alone, how sometimes it's nice to not have to be anything for anybody. I could have gone to Blue Ribbon where they know me, or to my old restaurant, but somehow being around people I would have to talk to missed the point.
Besides, taking yourself out should be new and different and exciting. I had never been to the Farm before, had always wanted to check it out, but never did. Walking there, I started to feel a little sorry for myself, a little awkward, having second thoughts at the door and looking at the menu, watching people eat with people and laugh and I went in anyway. Sit at the bar, look at the menu, order a drink and ask the bartender what she likes. I order then, pate to start and fettucine; a heavy, meaty appetizer and a lighter entree, something I can linger over, and then the bread comes and it's not perfect--a little dry maybe, but I wipe it through my little dish of oil, and I'm ready for more. Things start to feel good, and the pate comes--a big plate, one solid slice of terrine, some mesclun, grainy mustard, olives and cornichon. I smell the terrine, slice a piece and it's everything a country pate should be, hearty and well seasoned. The mustard is delicious and I eat each piece differently, trying every combination of bread and meat and greens, mustard, pickles and olives. The olives are creamy and the mesclun is acidic with a citrus undertone.
I finish, pushing the plate away and nodding to the bartender. I tell her it was delicious, I'm glad I ordered it, and then the fettucine comes, a giant bowl of pasta and peas and broccoli rabe. It's a little bland at first, but some kosher sprinkled over, a good swirl with my knife and it's perfect, filling but light, good spring vegetables, fresh pasta and I eat it quickly, finishing every strand. I'm full now, sit back and look at the plate. The bartender sees the peas I've left, says "You don't like peas." I laugh, "No I love peas, I'm just full," and somehow saying it gives me enough push to dig in again, and I finish the plate. Skip desert because, really, I am very full. I look down the bar, to the back of the restaurant, half full, a couple of tables having come in since I sat down. It's a Wednesday night, after ten, and a restaurant in Brooklyn is almost full. Life is good.
Now I've been reading a lot of MFK Fisher lately--I would quote her on this, but I've lent my girlfriend the book. And there's something about the way she ate alone, and something about her dignity and aesthetic and the way I feel when I'm alone, how sometimes it's nice to not have to be anything for anybody. I could have gone to Blue Ribbon where they know me, or to my old restaurant, but somehow being around people I would have to talk to missed the point.
Besides, taking yourself out should be new and different and exciting. I had never been to the Farm before, had always wanted to check it out, but never did. Walking there, I started to feel a little sorry for myself, a little awkward, having second thoughts at the door and looking at the menu, watching people eat with people and laugh and I went in anyway. Sit at the bar, look at the menu, order a drink and ask the bartender what she likes. I order then, pate to start and fettucine; a heavy, meaty appetizer and a lighter entree, something I can linger over, and then the bread comes and it's not perfect--a little dry maybe, but I wipe it through my little dish of oil, and I'm ready for more. Things start to feel good, and the pate comes--a big plate, one solid slice of terrine, some mesclun, grainy mustard, olives and cornichon. I smell the terrine, slice a piece and it's everything a country pate should be, hearty and well seasoned. The mustard is delicious and I eat each piece differently, trying every combination of bread and meat and greens, mustard, pickles and olives. The olives are creamy and the mesclun is acidic with a citrus undertone.
I finish, pushing the plate away and nodding to the bartender. I tell her it was delicious, I'm glad I ordered it, and then the fettucine comes, a giant bowl of pasta and peas and broccoli rabe. It's a little bland at first, but some kosher sprinkled over, a good swirl with my knife and it's perfect, filling but light, good spring vegetables, fresh pasta and I eat it quickly, finishing every strand. I'm full now, sit back and look at the plate. The bartender sees the peas I've left, says "You don't like peas." I laugh, "No I love peas, I'm just full," and somehow saying it gives me enough push to dig in again, and I finish the plate. Skip desert because, really, I am very full. I look down the bar, to the back of the restaurant, half full, a couple of tables having come in since I sat down. It's a Wednesday night, after ten, and a restaurant in Brooklyn is almost full. Life is good.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
To elaborate--it's no secret I've got a hard on for the guy, so needless to say, I was excited to see him. I stopped in with friends for a ssam or too. Ended up eating the pork buns and Dr. Pepper. On my way to order, I congratulated him. I wanted a chance to talk a bit more, but the interview went on for a while, and then we were ready to leave. The reason I love David Chang is in every salty sour sweet bite of pork bun, the bottom of the bun splitting, and I try to keep the meat in with my fingers, holding it to my mouth pinched between thumb and index, my pinky ring and middle cupped under the bottom of the bun and my other hand catching the drips, still pork is spilling out and there's juice on my chin and I'm with friends but goddam this is a good pork bun and, i'm sorry, you were saying? I love the restaurant because it's fucking delicious and I could talk about the atmosphere and the decor and the hip factor and the p.r. machines, but at the end of the day, I'm sitting elbow to elbow at a bar with guys in suits and girls in mini skirts; we've all got meat juice dripping down our chins,and it doesn't matter because it's about the fucking food...period.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Some lines are just too easy. And if she won't do it, I will...
“I thought it would be much, much bigger,” said one of my companions.
Indeed, Frank, Indeed.
“I thought it would be much, much bigger,” said one of my companions.
Indeed, Frank, Indeed.
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