An Effing Foodie

Food Poem: Storm Catechism, by Kim Addonzio

2009-12-30T01:03:00-05:00

Storm Catechism

The gods are rinsing their just-boiled pasta
in a colander, which is why
it is humid and fitfully raining
down here in the steel sink of mortal life.
Sometimes you can smell the truffle oil
and hear the ambrosia being knocked back,
sometimes you catch a drift
of laughter in that thunder crack: Zeus
knocking over his glass, spilling lighting
into a tree. The tree shears away from itself
and falls on a car, killing a high school girl.
Or maybe it just crashes down
on a few trash cans, and the next day
gets cut up and hauled away by the city.
Either way, hilarity. The gods are infinitely perfect
as is their divine mac and cheese.
Where does the macaroni come from? Where does matter?
Why does the cat act autistic when you call her,
then bat around a moth for an hour, watching intently
as it drags its wings over the area rug?
The gods were here first, and they're bigger.
They always were, and always will be
living it up in their father's mansion.
You only crawled from the drain
a few millennia ago,
after inventing legs for yourself
so you could stand, inventing fists
in order to raise them and curse the heavens.
Do the gods see us?
Will the waters be rising soon?
The waters will be rising soon.
Find someone or something to cling to.

Roundup 2009: Soto, West Village, NYC

2009-12-29T00:33:36-05:00

When Momma Foodie came in last Christmas, I focused in on our Big Production Japanese Splurge, Morimoto.

But when I asked what her favorite eating experience was, she didn't go with the big dog; she said she liked Soto best, and could we please go back?

Done and done. Ma Foodie's flight narrowly missed the blizzard; six hours out of coach from Hong Kong, the Family EF were tiptoeing through the quickly accumulating white into the also-white unmarked entrance of Sotohiro Kosugi's namesake, Soto.

It's no secret to regular readers--I tend to favor little restaurants to big, little plates to big, etc. Even on a blizzard day, the small, spartan spaced slowly filled with smiling eaters who sipped sake and cooed over the beautiful little plates rolling out of the kitchen.

I didn't want to interrupt the mojo of the first fam dinner we'd had in a year with picture-taking, but here are a few stunners that were just too pretty to go undocumented:

Thin-sliced greenling (a bitty, sweet white-fleshed fish) with ponzu.

One-Minute Tai: Barely steamed red snapper with shoyu, ginger oil and scallion. Like a pitch-perfect bite of steamed Chinese fish.

Super-fatty Scottish Salmon (Sake) Sashimi.

Chutoro (Fatty Tuna) Tartare with Avocado Mousse, American Caviar and Chives: Unctuous melty fish fat with fatty avocado fat and fatty fish roe. Fattyfattyfat ace in the hole.

Mirugai (Geoduck) Sashimi: Crunchy, sweet and saline, and cut into exploding chrysanthemum clam poofs, to maximize the surface area and texture. Family EF has eaten lots of giant clam tongue, and we've never came across this approach--a fun one to spring on the sushi-jaded.

Uni (Sea Urchin) over Black Yuba in Dashi: AKA, funky sea cheese a la tofu skin in bonito broth. Creamy, briny, light and pungent, an unami wonderland.

And many, many other things that I wasn't diligent enough to clicky-click with my point-and-shoot. We were busy passing, chuckling, teasing, and draining sake, none too eager to tromp back outside. When there was no more room in our gullets for additional inventive seafood bits, we bundled a sleepy, happy Momma back into her rarely-used poofy coat.

She shook our gracious waiter's hand, and said she'd see him next year.

---------------------------------------

Soto
357 Sixth Ave.
(btwn W 4th & Washington Pl.)
West Village
NYC, NY 10014
212-414-3088

NYC Wintertime Treats: Shake Shack, the redhead, 2nd Ave Deli (and Random Acts of Hot Toddy)

2009-12-17T00:12:00-05:00

I'm a crybaby wuss when it comes to the cold, so it tickles me when NY tosses out treats and winter work-arounds for those willing to brave the bluster (and those who've been felled by it).

--> To help ease the bitter, Bolshevikian line for Sports Dogs and 'Shroom Burgers, Shake Shack is meeting its Madison-Square-adjacent burger junkies halfway by offering a winter call-in service: Place your order in advance and they'll give you an exact time to go and pick it up. Danke, Daddy Meyer!

--> Chances are if you've eaten a homey, rib-sticking Southern meal at the redhead (small caps theirs), you haven't saved room for this little beauty: The Hot Chocolate Car Bomb. Thick hot chocolate, Guinness and Jameson's topped with a homemade Bailey's marshmallow, this absurdly sexy caloric KO is reason enough to hunker down at the bar before (or after!) the packed dinner rush.

--> Besides bequeathing us with the uber-handy mecha-list of soups, NYMag lets flu-bitten Midtowners in on a handy little tip: The reborn 2nd Ave Deli delivers half-gallon jars of their Chicken in the Pot. For $24.45 (including the deposit on the jar), you get half a kosher chicken with feather-light matzo balls gently adrift in golden Jewish Penicillin, 6 half-sour pickles, coleslaw, and 4 slices of rye.

--> If chicken soup alone can't clear your head and warm your toes, a hot toddy will probably get you the rest of the way: Saveur and the NYT share some insights, history, and recipes for toasty toddies and their fancier cousins, Tom & Jerrys.

Takin' Back Bitch, Gender or Kitchen Notwithstanding

2009-12-16T00:09:20-05:00

I'll start off with my hands up: I'm not married, don't have kids, and therefore do not have any logged hours with which to provide insight on gender-based roles and balance in a functioning marriage.

Maybe that's why I was so puzzled when I read Hanna Rosin's article, The Rise of the Kitchen Bitch. (And yet MORE puzzled upon hearing about a new magazine in Germany angled specifically at Man-Foodies, titled: BEEF! EmPHAsis theirs.)

Kitchen gender politics have always been contentious and highly subjective. A person's place in a kitchen has got zilch to do with gender roles. It's all about personality. Whether you're a wizened Punjabi matriarch or a Tennessee pitmaster, if you're a Type-A with any kind of confidence and know-now, you're going to dominate a kitchen. Period.

If you're in a long-term relationship/marriage, SOMEone is going to be in the kitchen more than the other. It's as unkind and counterproductive to call your husband a bitch for ruling the kitchen as it would be if he stormed in and demanded a hot dinner.

Rosin seems to be saying that home kitchen dominatrix is a pre-established role that women have been robbed of--that if her husband was the kitchen beta and she the alpha, he would have to take her potato-peeling nitpicking into stride, as this is her domain.

It boggles the mind. I'm not versed in Freidanese. I tend to think that effective feminism allows respective genders to do whatever they is they choose (preferably, whatever they do best). Rosin writes:

...cooking has taken on a distinctly guy-hobby kind of feel. Christopher Kimball’s Cook’s Illustrated treats the kitchen like a garage, endlessly tinkering and perfecting, and his scientific method has triumphed over the lush, dreamy (now defunct) Gourmet. Michael Ruhlman took it one step further with Ratio [12], a baking book written in the voice of a high-school science textbook. [XX]

Yeah...no. Gourmet is defunct because it couldn't distinguish itself from Bon Appetit and Conde Nast Traveler, and therefore couldn't sustain the exorbitantly priced print ad sales that were its life blood. Gourmet couldn't be bothered to develop a competitive new media product. Gourmet is NOT defunct because it was outwardly feminine and "dreamy" (growl).

And why, WHY is she attributing a mechanics and scientific voice to masculinity???? Oh right...it's because she's trying wedge us back into the kitchen. My bad.

And it's not even the push back into the kitchen that's really buggering me. If you look at the article in its entirety, it's impossible to determine what it is Rosin wants.

She wants her husband to...not offer constructive cooking criticism? Take care of the kids more, so that she can cook more often...but only until she doesn't feel like cooking any more?

It reads: I want what I want when I want it. Anticipate my needs, even though I've not established them. That's not phucking feminism. That's a bratty, uncommunicative adult, whining about how the big bad world has made her kitchen an unnatural place.

And THEN there's her weak-ass argument that the testosteronization of food and kitchen is a recent thing:

These days, Julia Child and Alice Waters are the cuddly matriarchs of a professional-chef scene that is otherwise manning up. “Imagination” and “daring” has, over time, morphed into “bare-fisted” and “potty-mouthed [8],” as the celebrity chef becomes synonymous with testosterone-fueled asshole...it’s hard to keep up with the itinerant rage-aholics cycling through the Food Network—Gordon Ramsey, Marco Pierre White, David Chang, the Voltaggio brothers [10]. Even something as frou-frou as cake decorating is dominated by a goateed Baltimore thug—Chef Duff from Ace of Cakes—who is at best a lovable jerk. Women, meanwhile, are left holding the cupcakes. [XX]

Ahem. Men have always, ALWAYS dominated professional kitchens; since the dawn of restaurants and Escoffier, they have ALWAYS been pushy, cussing, toqued idiot-savants. Though the progress has been slow, there are LOADS of women who hold their own against these assholes every day.

Rosin points out Top Chef's Voltaggios, but what about Stephanie Izard, Casey Thompson, and Jennifer Carroll? These are accomplished chefs by any right, and they're NOT holding phucking cupcakes, or crying about their roles in their home kitchens.

This is not a man-woman thing. This is one woman and her newly publicly castrated husband.

Roundup 2009, Home-Cookin': Freakin' FENNEL (and Pearl Barley)

2009-12-15T04:07:47-05:00

Left to my own devices in a supermarket, I get the grabbiest in the produce department. (This is particularly true in winter, when my body gets the idea it can ingest sunlight via plant life.)

A lot of peeps who cook regularly are cooking up against the forces of meat rot--I, however, picked up my momma's penchant for picking up more vegetables than an oft-eating-alone lady can possibly consume. It's a tarantella of cooking vs. vegetal wilt.

I tried to walk past the pile of fennel bulbs at Stew Leonard's. NONONO. You don't need it! You've got arugula, radicchio, avocados, tomatoes, cabbage, green chilis, apples, pears...walk AWAY from the freakin' fennel!!!

Fail whale, a la fennel-resistance.

Ditto for a package of pearl barley (AKA Fail Whale Two, Rise of the Grocery Glutton).

I justified it this way: I'd never made fennel or barley before...I'm learning something new!

Love it when learning is tasty. 'Twas easy too: I parboiled the barley separately (about 30 minutes, with some chicken bones leftover from a previous dinner) and sauteed the thin-sliced fennel bulb and a shallot in some olive oil, butter, a pinch of sugar, salt and pepper. Tossed the barley in with the fennel to coat, and sprinkled in the chopped fronds as I was turning off the heat.

The pearl barley had a great chew and nuttiness that complemented the tender, anise tang of fennel--it was a warm, welcoming bowl that was at once familiar and intriguing.

Feeling protein-guilt, I topped it with some diced fresh mozzarella and roasted pumpkin seeds. The cheese was a good add--the pumpkin seeds, not so much. There was something about them that smothered out the welcome licorice waft.

Next time, pistachios or pine nuts...oooh, maybe crumbled bacon, or Parmesan.

Need more convincing? Well, both fennel and barley pack considerable fiber (always a plus); fennel brings vitamin C and potassium to the party, and barley has all the cereal benefits of iron, zinc, manganese, selenium, and niacin...all of the above are said to be helpful in combating Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD, i.e. serious wintertime funk).

Considering all the other gluttony you bear witness to, maybe revealing more acts of vegetable surrender is in order. Remind me.

Holiday Gift Guide, 2009: Fancypants Nosh from the BKLYN Larder

2009-12-10T14:16:11-05:00

I'm an unabashed fan of Franny's, the BKLYN Larder's big-sister venture, so when I got the Larder's newsletter for Christmas goodies, a little involuntary drooling and clapping may-or-may-not have happened.

Jasper Farm?

Mast Brothers? (Going to visit their factory this weekend, stay tuned!)

Neal's Yard Stichelton???

To all who have been sweating presents and are in spitting distance of Park Slope, now's your chance:

Call them at 718.783.1250 to place your order. (Or visit them in person!)
They ask that you place your orders by December 20th.
They are open 7 days a week, plus from 10 AM to 6 PM on Christmas-Eve-Day for to pick up said order. (They'll thankfully be closed Christmas Day!)

Browse their cornucopia of baskets here.

They're doing catering, too, for all the Christmas cheer with none of the toiling!

Same rules for ordering apply. Don't corner or kid yourself--you know if you're too busy to cook!

Finally, one handy-dandy ordering form:

And you're all set! Feliz Navidad to all the lucky bastards in Brooklyn!

--------------------------

BKLYN Larder
228 Flatbush Ave
Btwn Bergen & 6th Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11217
718.783.1250
bklyn.larder[AT]gmail.com

Hours:
Monday - Saturday, 10 AM - 9 PM
Sunday, 10 AM - 8 PM
Christmas Eve Day, 10 AM - 6 PM
Closed Christmas Day

franny's
295 Flatbush Avenue
Btwn St. Marks Ave and Prospect Pl
Brooklyn NY 11217
718.230.0221
frannysbrooklyn[AT]gmail.com

Hours:
Monday - Thursday, 5:30 - 11:00 PM
Friday, 5:30 - 11:30 PM
Saturday, 12:00 - 11:30 PM
Sunday, 12:00 - 10:00 PM

Holiday Gift Guide Realness, 2009: Boozehounds and Bookworms

2009-12-10T00:26:16-05:00

For the Boozer-in-the-Know:

I've always been partial to bourbon and Scotch as prezzies and balm, but this year Saveur did a couple of great articles on up-and-coming artisan spirits, namely single-malt Irish whiskeys, and small-batch Reposado mezcals. Bring their meticulous tasting notes (here for the whiskeys, and here for mezcals) to your local upscale purveyor of booze, and help your friends warm their bones with spirits they're unlikely to have tried before.

For the Hungry New Yawka:

Some folks aren't partial to narrative cookbooks. Or cussing. Or pancake profanity. You shouldn't give these people Kenny Shopsin's memoir/cookbook, aptly titled Eat Me: The Food and Philosophy of Kenny Shopsin (Hardcover, $16.47). It's a priceless read, with quirky photos, rants, recipes and anecdotes from arguably NY's most feared and respected king of the flat-top.

Not only does Kenny get into the strategy behind running a 900-item menu with a tiny kitchen, he is ruthlessly personal, sharing all about how his family grew up with Shopin's General Store, allowing us a peek into an insider's Village. What works about the book is Kenny's conflicted narrative: He loves, loves his life's work, the food he's made, the people he's met--he wants to tell you all about it. But he's not telling you to come-on-down. The man is the abrasive (but loving) curator for a 12-seat fiefdom, and he'll cook for who he pleases, when he pleases, thank you.

Not everyone has the guff to face Shopsin and his vetting, but fortunately, all are welcome at Veselka, day or night. I could go on and on about the justly famous bloody burger, pierogi, stuffed cabbage and borscht--but that would lead me away from shilling their newly released Veselka Cookbook: Recipes and Stories from the Landmark Restaurant in New York's East Village (Hardcover, $18.47 on Amazon).

Besides teaching us how to make hearty Ukrainian staples for ourselves, it sheds a light on a diner that most drunken Village-rompers take for granted, a 50-year-old venture of an immigrant family that started as a candy store and blossomed into a cultural touchstone. The cookbook can't replicate the experience of eating blintzes next to off-duty drag queens, but what can, really?

MORE!!! MORE GIFTS!!

----------------------------------------

Shopsin's General Store
Essex Street Market
120 Essex St
At Delancey St
Lower East Side (LES)
NYC, NY 10002

Hours:
Tuesday - Friday: 9 AM - 3 PM
Saturday: 9:30 AM - 2 PM

Rules:
No photos. No cell phones. No takeout. One order per person.

Veselka
144 2nd Ave
Btwn 9th St & St Marks Pl
East Village
New York, NY 10003
(212) 228-9682

24 hours...joy!!!

Holiday Gift Guide Realness, 2009: Naughty-n-Nice

2009-12-08T17:30:26-05:00

Because really, who's got friends that fit squarely into either category?

For the Feisty Fireball:

You know the one. She carries Sriracha Sauce in her purse. Deck her out in all her glory with a Hawt Pink Gold Polka Dotted Hostess Apron from DII ($18.94).
Customize a basket or box of Tien Tsin Chili Peppers, Crushed Pakistani Red Pepper, and Vindaloo Seasoning from Penzys Spices (or, go with the Some Like It Hot Gift Box, $39.99)
Even firebrands need a little something to spread on toast--Beth's Farm Kitchen offers a tangy-sour-sweet Mighty Hot Pepper Jelly ($8) that's a welcome kick in the pants for buttered toast and poached eggs. (Or make it a savory/hot trio with Habanero Jelly and Garlic-Rosemary Jelly.)

For the Hardware Harda*s:

Busting out the Cuisinart isn't always the answer: For those who want a little more control and rhythm with their mincing ways, how about a double-handled Wüsthof Mezzaluna (7-inch, $67.95). [As bada*s as the double-bladed ones look, I'm not certain how you'd go about cleaning it without hurting yourself.]
Big-Eyed Curvy Bombshell let me in on a dirty secret to quicker prep: Microplane Graters ($12.99) for fast-planed garlic, feather-light curls of hard cheese, easy citrus zesting and grating whole nutmeg. They're wicked-sharp, last forever and now come with soft-touch handles in a fancypants array of colors.
Safety first! With any large-prep project, I always fear for my knuckles when peeling and grating. Peel with impunity with the Victorinox steel-wrapped safety glove ($24.09).

For the Funk-Friendly:

The fabulous Matt Armendariz brings up an excellent point; sometimes it's hard to get excited about food specialty items. Enter Matt's latest obsession, Colatura, AKA Italian fish sauce, AKA the modern form of Roman Garum, AKA liquid gold for jaded foodie friends down with fermented fishies.

Next up: What to get boozehounds and bookworms.

Gift guides of Holidays Past:

And Your Little Plates, Too: El Quinto Pino, Chelsea, NYC

2009-12-05T20:24:23-05:00

I've gotten into a couple of lively discussions with friends about the small-plates phenomenon: It's a scam, a fussy, bourgeois conspiracy to leave wallets and bellies empty!

I hear ya. I've no interest in leaving an establishment hungry and poor. If you're going to get particular, I have more of a beef with the bare-bones steakhouse-style a la carte trend. ($50 for a steak, and you can't front me some mashed potatoes and creamed spinach? BLOW.)

But as small plates go, I'll say this: I'm not always interested in engorging myself (snake-shaped EF slowly dissolving a cheeseburger-shaped bump). Occasionally, it's nice just to get a couple of savory bites and linger over a bottle of wine with someone you haven't talked to in awhile. When those occasions/cravings arise, I find myself in the neighborhood of El Quinto Pino.

DO NOT go there for dinner, or to celebrate the end of a Master Cleanse. You'll just get pissy. If you have babies, knuckledraggers, claustrophobia, or an aversion to tall stools, steer clear. El Quinto Pino does tapas true to its word--you are here primarily to drink and eat a little something tasty as you do so.

The staff is sweet and wine-savvy, so let them point you toward the perfect glass of Spanish varietal you've never had before. Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I were happily sipping and surprised when the Fried Salt Cod (Soldaditos de Pavia, $7.50, pictured above) arrived.

I'm not sure what we were expecting, but the ratio was about 1:3 fluffy-fritter to cod, which moist and flaky, not salty at all. Greaseless and crisp, they were like upscale fish fingers--we'd only wished there'd been a some sherry vinegar to splash on 'em (but then, I'm guessing the idea is that you're supposed to be drinking sherry while eating these).

Also in the piscine parade, some Marinated White Anchovies (Boquerones, $12), also known as God's 'lil toast-toppers:

(Not pictured, plate of crusty bread rounds.) Clean and briny, they had a bracing vinegar kick and a goodly cloak of peppery, rich Spanish olive oil. Top, dab, blot. Repeat.

And then there's the much-loved, previously featured Uni Panini (toasted feather-light ficelle with sea urchin and mustard oil, $15). If I weren't afraid of dying an impoverished, mercury-related death, I'd eat one of these every day.

Drinking perchers can't live on fish alone, so please, get some Spanish-Style Cracklins (Torreznos, $6), which amount to freshly deep-fried thick bacon nuggets. Patience. Hot fat is delicious and hurtful.

Feel like something sweet? Sometimes, they have a simple, pleasingly creamy rice pudding, but my favorite closer at El Quinto Pino is the frozen horchata cocktail.

I think what they do is take sweetened almond milk and run it through a slushy machine, and top the whole with a brandy cap. I've asked the lovely servers to explain it more than once, but somehow freezing one's brain with almondy boozy bliss tends to keep it from retaining vital information.

I wholeheartedly admit that this place would inspire the ire of tapas detractors. Yep. You'd hate it. Don't go. You'll take up room that satisfied grazers don't have to spare.

----------------------------------------------

El Quinto Pino
401 W. 24th St
(near the NW corner of 24th and 9th Ave)
NYC, NY 10011
Chelsea
P: 212.206.6900
F: 212.206.6955

Hours:
Monday- Thursday: 5 p.m. - 12am
Friday and Saturday: 5 p.m. - 1 a.m.
Sunday 5pm - 11pm

Roundup, 2009: Brekky at Crepes No Ka 'Oi, Kailua, HI

2009-12-04T04:24:48-05:00

Good GOD. HOW can it be December???
In an effort to tourniquet the spurting wound of neglected content, I'll be tossing up short hit-and-runs of things that were just too pretty or tasty to be swept into a 2009 archive folder and forgotten. If I'm too abrupt, give a shout-out in comments and I'll be happy to fill in any gaps.

---------------------------

Back in May, when I was happily top-browning in the Motherland, there was a sparkling morning where I had nowhere to be, a big bad-as*ed borrowed '95 Buick LeSabre, and lingering jetlag that worked in favor of finding brekky before the crowds did.

The brunch favorite in Kailua is Boots and Kimo, but as I cruised the Big Green Buick past, there were already clusters of patient pancake fans dotting the entrance. Waiting in line for pancakes for one? Mmmmm...no.

But a couple of doors down, there was a sparkling space boasting happy crepe eaters:

Why not? Crepes No Ka 'Oi was sunny and bright--I settled myself into a tall bar seat that faced a mirror, and tried not to make faces at myself as my crepe was bring made.

The older I get, the more I've come to enjoy the occasional solo meal out. It was hard not to feel contented and mysterious as I sipped my illy coffee (PROPS!). The only drawback was that I had to choose a sweet or savory crepe rather than sharing both with a like-minded eater.

Savory won out (doesn't it always?)--I went with the Basic Breakfast Crepe ($7.50):

(Because I was feeling vacation vegetable guilt, I had them add some spinach, too.)

The slight sweetness of the honey ham, the still-soft scrambled eggs shot through with jack and cheddar cheese, the green and gold whole enveloped by a light, crispy crepe...whatever alarmingly smarmy smugness I was already feeling about being alive and eating breakfast in Hawaii quadrupled as I tucked into the melty mass.

Lord knows, I don't know when I'll be back. So to the folks back home, go quickly and often! And if you go alone (which I recommend) nut up the way I now wish I had. Get a savory AND a sweet one.

----------------------------------

Crepes No Ka 'Oi
131 Hekili St.
Kailua, HI
(808) 263-4088

Hours:
Mon, Wed, Thurs - 7am to 8pm
Fri, Sat - 7am to 9pm
Sun - 7am to 2pm
Closed on Tuesdays