An Effing Foodie

I Spy: Tongue and Cheek Terrine @ Franny's, Brooklyn

2011-05-16T22:27:16-04:00

I'm a sucker for a good terrine, because in my heart of hearts, I know I'll never be the kind of gal who will take the time to press meaty off-bits into a sliceable miracle of natural gelatins and tender shreds.

So this item was a Quadruple Threat for me as I skimmed the menu at Franny's on a fine spring day: Pork Cheek? Beef Tongue? Terrine? AND a pun?

Yes, please!

And, dear readers, I had the same thought that you did upon spying this for the first time. This looks like...Spam. Fancypants Spam. Spam with spats and a pedigree.

Which is exactly what it tasted like. Being from the Spamtacular State of Hawaii, this is by no means a negative association. It was a luscious mosaic of faces, meaty and savory, the lean muscle of the beef tongue gelled together by the richness of the pork cheek.

[In a perfect world: Tongue and Cheek and Egg breakfast sandwiches. 'Twould be a heady glut of calories and sexy metaphors to face in the morning.]

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franny's
295 Flatbush Avenue
Brooklyn NY 11217
718 230 0221

Sushi is As Sushi Does: Coeds Cram Panda Rolls into Sushi Chef Gender Gap

2011-03-06T00:34:32-05:00

Nadeshico Sushi restaurant in Tokyo is filling a long-standing gender gap with panda bear and frog face maki, crafted by the first-ever all female sushi chef lineup (WSJ, via VV).

Sort of. They get the guys to do all the icky stuff.

The whole article's a real leg-slapper, but can be best summed up with this gem of a title:

Hot Women Serving Cold Fish Make for Raw Feelings in Tokyo: Japan's First Sushi Restaurant Staffed by Female Chefs Has Traditionalists Carping.

Google "hot women", "cold fish", "raw feelings in Tokyo" and "first sushi" with your Safe Search turned off. I double dog dare you. I carp you.

In fact, skip ALL of that and just search "Nadeshico", the restaurant's namesake (translates literally to "ideal woman"). NSFW.

The centuries-old official line regarding gender disparity in sushi chefdom is that women have naturally warmer hands than men, which is detrimental to the handling of spanking-fresh raw fish. On top of that, wimmen are covered in girly sh*t, like perfume and cosmetics, that could effect the purity of the fish.

Things that also effect the purity of fish: Being black, white, Latin, non-Japanese Asian or any mix thereof. They also hate kittens, gays, big people, little people, cripples, vampires, zombies, the homeless and Bieber fans. Oh, and chicks over 25:

Kazuya Nishikiori, the middle-aged owner of Nadeshico, says he wanted to create a new model for working women in Japan. But he later explains he'll only hire women who are between the ages of 18 and 25 to work behind the counter. "After all, our slogan is 'fresh and kawaii,"' he explains, invoking the ubiquitous word for "cute." "If someone wanted to work here and was 30, I'd put her in the back." [WSJ]

This culinary tour de force is "one floor below the massage parlor that promises 'total relaxation'" in the Akihabara district, the tech geek wonderland rife with maid cafes and pillow girlfriends.

On the upside, if the fish-eating pervs are all in one spot, they'll be easier to avoid.

People, for the love of God, don't blame pandas. Or cosplay. They can be used for the forces of good.

A Way-Way-Way Belated Photojournal o' Big Gay Thanksgiving

2011-02-18T11:30:40-05:00

Many thanks to the ever-loving Max, Alex and Edna for the blood, sweat and tears; shout-out to Effing Brobro the Elder for stepping up as primary prep and all-round sous chef extraordinaire; thanks too to all the peeps from near and far whose contributions and sparkling company made this a memorable feast, even months later.

Alton Brown's never-fail Brined Turkey, as done and tweaked by Max.

Frankenstuffing (dos pans!)

Braised Fennel, a la Max; Cranberry-Fig Chutney (moi, via the Amateur Gourmet via Food 52); Classic Canned Crannyloaf.

Brussels Sprouts with Mustard and Pine Nuts...

Paula Deen's Corn Pudding, plus Scallions, Red Pepper and Curry; wicked easy, and as with all things Paula Deen, irrationally satisfying and cranny-filling.

5 lbs. of Garlic Mash (half pictured here).

Not pictured: Sweet Potatoes with Pecans (Joanna), Cream Biscuits (Edna), Artichoke Dip (Max and Edna), Two-Pesto Terrine (Max and Edna), Cauliflower and Broccoli Gratin (moi), Cream Gravy (moi).

Lap-perched caloric load...huzzah!

Pumpkin pie a la Max, and Pumpkin Cheesecake, 2 ways, a la Joanna; hand whipped cream by Edna.

Thank you too, gentle readers, for your patience and loyalty, in this the 3rd year of the blog! The posts are slow but the appetite runs high, and without you, I'm just flotsam in the tide of gluttonous, sanctimonious know-it-all morons. *MUAH!*

Ghosts of Big Gay Thanksgiving's Past: 2009, 2007.

...and, in Defense of Endives

2011-01-17T06:09:00-05:00

As much as I enjoy Lux's metaphor for WASPs-as-poky-peculiar-pallid-veggies, I don't share his dislike for Belgian endive. (I do share his dislike for skimpy salad portions, and the prickly establishments that serve them. IT'S SALAD. PENNIES. Pile it on, gawddammit.)

I like that they're so distinctively waxy, crisp and bitter--when an endive snaps in your teeth, it can be mistaken for little else. The separated curls of each leaf are sharp little gondolas for all manner of things runny and rich: Soft cheeses, fondue, crab or artichoke dip.

Think celery but more fay, and meaner. Or if bok choy had light-deprived, bitterly-ankle-biting midget cousins.

I tend to slice them into 1/2-inch cuticles and toss them with crumbled blue cheese (hullo, Cabrales!), chunks of green apple or pear, honey, and black pepper. Pungent, sweet, crunchy and spicy, there's nothing chaste or clerical about it.

Cooking endives is something I've never done, but am muy curious about; the French tend to make them into gratin, which sounds silky-sexy-comforting.

I think that even Thomas Lux may concede in this case: Nothing is so irritatingly twee that it can't be made delicious by covering it in rustic pig and cream. Some time ago, the effervescent Matt Armendariz posted a simple but gorgeous recipe for Braised Endive that has lingered in the recesses of must-try: Winter project? NodNODnod.

P.S. Where have I been? Mostly, trying to plot a way to puke into this guy's hat.

Food Poems: Endive, by Thomas Lux

2011-01-15T12:17:47-05:00

Endive*

If I mix a vegetable and moral metaphor
then this pale,
arrogant little leaf—its juices spare,
its taste pinched
and numbing—is equivalent
to a rich child pulling legs
off a bug, to a swaggering walk through a TB ward
by a pulmonary giant. Not to mention
a pathetic excuse for salad: four, five spiked shards
arranged like spokes
around its hub: a radish delicately carved.
The white plate upon which it sits so bare it blinds me.
Who, forced to wear white butler's gloves,
bends over a row all day
to pick this for a lousy wage
and can't afford or, I'd prefer, refuses
to eat it? It's so pallid
turning to yellow I feel stabbing it
with my fork
would hurt it
or at least be impolite
so I slide the shiny tines beneath a piece
and lift it to my lips
and it's as if I'm eating air
but with a slight afterburn: dust and bone,
privilege and toe-dancing.
So delicate, curling in on itself
in an ultimate self-embrace: fussy, bitter, chaste, clerical
little leaf.

--from "New and Selected Poems of Thomas Lux: 1975-1995"

*Many thanks to Tom Lucky for pointing me toward this poem.

I Spy: Rainbow Kale, Tomato Focaccia, and Goat Cheese Halloumi

2010-11-12T10:25:38-05:00

(Pronounced: KAAAAAAAAAAaaale!!!!)

This frankensandwich is the end result of grabbiness in the Union Square Greenmarket.

Nope, I didn't go mental and make the bread, but I did enjoy the earthy-nutty smell of gorgeous rainbow kale toasting in a skillet with a bit of sesame oil and black garlic.

And how much fun is halloumi? Firm, a little tangy from goat's milk, with a pleasing squeak to the teeth, this grilled/browned halloumi had all the allure of string cheese, Wisconsin cheese curds, and a breadless grilled cheese in one sliceable unit. (Chuckle, unit.)

Next round, I'd add another semi-wet element to balance this vegetal bounty: Maybe soft-cooked eggs, tomato or pepper jelly, or anchovies. (Or match it up with some soup for dipping. Helloooo, escarole and bean!)

I Spy: Eggs, Eggs, and More Eggs

2010-06-22T15:30:55-04:00

Hullo there.

I try not to get FN icky and personal here, because...well, there are enough people feeling loudly on blogs. Blech. Suffice it to say, large momentous life changes have made sitting down and feeding the interwebs a little more challenging.

But rest assured, gentle and hungry readers, I still think too much about eating, and have lately been fixating mostly on eggs. And more eggs.

Pour Some Sugar On Me kidnapped me to her family's lakeside cabin in PA, where drunken bees were gorging themselves on flowering chives. I perry and dodged for my breakfast share; chive blossoms make scrambled eggs taste like they were kissed by garlic-y magic angel babies.

Clip and wash the poofy bloom clusters, pluck to separate the lil blossoms, and sprinkle at will for purple bursts of allium spunk. (Rosemary flowers are great with eggs, too!)

Elsewhere in eggland: For Effing BroBro's birthday, our family was lucky enough to sojourn to Blue Hill at Stone Barns, where I had my very first encounter with unlaid eggs.

Being Blue Hill, these embryonic eggs came from prideful hens raised on the estate, and were cured in salt until they took on the consistency of hard cheese.

For double-your-unlaid-pleasure, said salty cured yolks were shaved atop pasta made from fresh unlaid yolks. Sunny and reeking of procreative richness, 'twas lucky indeed that Blue Hill provided me this particular first.

And in my much-less-fancy-farmless kitchen, I revisited recession recipes:

Kale, Sausage and Cheddar Strata: Super-handy for feeding a mess of brunchers.

And the far classier Spam Sliders with over-easy eggs on King's Hawaiian Sweet Bread rolls:

Homesick Hawaiians, rejoice! I found said King's Sweet Bread at the Lime Tree Market in the East Village, of all places.

I ~may have~ screamed, danced and cried when I spotted them.

Go forth and purchase said far-flung manna, so that they continue stocking it!

Calçotada, ChachaCHA: Springtime @ Savoy, SoHo, NYC

2010-05-18T13:10:41-04:00

I'd heard fables of calçotada via Anthony Bourdain and similar globe-hopping eaters; much as foodies stateside go apesh*t over ramps, Catalans eagerly anticipate the arrival of calçots:

[C]alçotada, a party centered around eating piles of messy calçots, or green onions, that are blackened over open fires and served with a garlicky romesco sauce of toasted almonds, toasted bread, and smoky ñora peppers.

Calçots are a Catalonian specialty grown in a unique way: harvested in early summer, they're replanted and then repeatedly covered with dirt so that the white part of the root elongates, producing a sweet and tender vegetable. (Calçots take their name from the Catalan calçar, which means to put shoes on, a reference to the process of covering the roots. [Saveur]

It was on the castle-in-the-sky To Do List, as I've no earthly idea what spring I'd be able to trot around Spain.

And then, I caught wind that Savoy and Back Forty were holding calçotada respectively.

Bless Peter Hoffman for cheerily provoking New Yorkers to eat with their hands and cavort with strangers!

The elder of the 2 Effing BroBros joined me for this soiree of charred carousing; we knew we were in for a treat as we saw clouds of onion-and-lamb affected smoke wafting down Prince St.

Dinner included dangerously drinkable bottomless rosé, both in-glass and arced directly into mouths by a porron-wielding Peter Hoffman himself.

"It's all in the arms!" Hoffman happily demonstrated, the blush-colored wine catching light as it streamed neatly into his open mouth.

Family Effing threw down, but not nearly to as impressive effect. (My lips touched glass as I tapered off--FAIL!) Cheers to our table, where every single diner gave the porron a go.

Like snarfing new herring or dismembering decapods, haphazard method and humbling communal messiness seems half the point of eating piping hot calçots:

After sliding off the onions' scorched outer layers, all present, from children to grandmothers, dunk the calçots in romesco (see Grilled Green Onions with Romesco), tip back their heads, and lower the long, white stalks into their mouths, leaving behind sooty fingers and a mound of carbonized leaves. [Saveur]

Our green onions were not as hefty or sooty as the Catalonian ones described, so no stripping was necessary; the helpful grill-master's mate showed us how to coil the onions and scoop up romesco from the large shared bowl. Big, greasy smiles and blackened fingers followed.

The romesco was rich, coarse and thick, like a red-hued pesto, chunky with mortared almonds. The brazen garlicky-fattiness of it mingled beautifully with the sweet-n-bitter grilled green onions, flame-cripsed at the ends and tender within.

EF and Effing BroBro: HUMuhgwd. Eesh go good.

I wish I'd thought to scoop out a big blob of it to eat with my lamb, greens, sausage and beans...but I was too busy eating lamb, greens, sausage and beans.

Everything was that stripped-down stripe of satisfaction. The grilled lamb was a lovely medium-rare, with a good sprinkle of flaky sea salt; the kale with maybe a little lemon and olive oil; the botifarra sausages were plump, generous, and totally unadorned; and the beans tasted...like beans, not sugar or pork, tooth-tender and creamy.

Crispy-topped crema catalana capped off the bloat:

Catalans claim that their custard is primordial creme brulee, but when you've got a trap full of heavy cream and burnt brittled sugar, you're unlikely to quibble over chicken-or-the-egg.

Spoons plonked to pause down our long table of good-humored, rosé-glowy company, live flamenco tumbling the whole restaurant along. 'Twas a mighty fine way to spend a spring night.

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

Savoy
70 Prince St
SE corner of Prince and Crosby
SoHo
NYC, NY 10012
PH: 212.219.5870

Hours:
Lunch:
M - F, 12 PM - 3 PM
Sat, 12 PM - 4 PM

Happy Hour:
M - F, 3 PM - 7 PM
Sat & Sun, 4 PM - 7 PM

Dinner:
M - Thurs, 6 PM - 10 PM
Fri - Sat, 6 PM - 10:30 PM

...and don't forget their fab, more casual East Village sister restaurant, Back Forty.

EF Eats Tokyo, Vol.2: Tsukiji Fish Market, Day 1

2010-05-03T20:26:33-04:00

Good 'ol EST jetlag made snapping up in bed at an ungodly wee hour relatively easy--not that it would have been hard anyway, since Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I were about to embark on one of my long-coveted foodie dreams. We strapped on knee-high combat boots and wellies respectively, and padded out into a barely stirring Tokyo.

Some foodies dream of El Bulli and The French Laundry, of vintage wines and caviar, of green-chile cheeseburger trails, cross-country pie conquests, and sniffing out the most authentic Maine lobster roll. And while I'm game for any of the above, I wouldn't trade any of them for the 2 mornings that I had at the Tsukiji Fish Market.

Cremebruleed, a dearly trusted foodie who I'd not been in touch with for YEARS, had just moved back to Tokyo, and was all too happy to meet us for our first tryst into the edible aquatic wonderland. It was her birthday, after all--what better birthday breakfast than the freshest sushi in the world?

Even though it was early, cold and rainy, we 3 were in great spirits, and Cremebruleed laughed aloud as I danced in little circle of fishy anticipation. Without ado, she yanked us into the bustling, living hive of commerce.

As with much of Tokyo, my noggin was flatly unprepared for the intensity and scale of Tsukiji. The infamous international tuna auction has been closed to tourists, so we were making a beeline to the heart of the market (rows and rows of seafood and Japanese longshoremen), and working our way to the outer rings (produce markets, pickle stands, kitchen hardware stores, street foods, and minuscule restaurants favored by the longshoremen once they were done with work).

Basically, if you needed live cuttlefish, a sharkskin wasabi grater, a fresh root of wasabi to go with it, and a giant bowl of spaghetti with fresh Hokkaido crabs, this little city within a city is where you'd go to get it all.

BTW, some haters would scowl at the closing of certain areas of the markets to tourists, but let me tell ya: The market-proper is a full-powered, dangerous place, and if you don't have your wits about you, you'll probably be mowed down by one of a thousand forklifts pinging in a million directions at worst, or catch a face-full of fishy hosewater at best.

NYer walking/dodging/perrying skills definitely helped us from dying or stopping vital business, and even we got annoyed at the congestion-causing telephoto-lensed momos wandering haplessly into certain disaster.

Cremebruleed led our little duckling line through the damp, endless rows of piscine jewels and treasures--crabs of every imaginable size, shape and feistyness:

Bitty rock crabs, alien Hokkaido crabs, Alaskan King--every one alive and kickin'. If it can't poke your eye out, it ain't fresh.

One fish!

Two fish!

Flat fish!

Group fish! (Group o groupers.)

But you're here for the food, and so were we. By 9 AM, we'd worked up a hearty appetite sidestepping splatter and gawking at swimmy critters, so Cremebruleed inched us toward the outer ring of the market. She strolled down a row of tiny sushi places, past all the tourists and nationals waiting in hour-long lines at Daiwa and Sushi Dai, and stopped at the last sliding glass door.

The sushi master greeted us warmly as we inched our way into the clean, lilliputian space; bags went in a rack directly over our heads, bottoms on stools, backs against the wall, knees under the sushi bar. Scale: Subway car, if that.

With a hot towel and a quick flip of the picture-oriented menu, the 3 of us each chose the 14-piece, 1 roll omakase (3,700 yen, I think...definitely under 4,000, or $40 USD), in which we would choose the last two pieces of nigiri. SSFL and I were grinning and bobbing like kids on Christmas, and Cremebruleed was smiling like...well, a lady in-the-know at a fab birthday breakfast.

First four pieces of nigiri--(L to R) maguro (lean tuna), toro (fatty tuna), hata (grouper) and tai (red snapper).

Each tuna cut was rich, fatty, and distinct; the grouper was meaty and almost creamy, and the snapper sparklingly saline; all were so clean and fresh that you could practically hear their offers for three wishes melting in the slightly warm rice.

I didn't fully realize where I was in the world until the moment that 1st piece--maguro--broke apart on my tongue. It was the reverse of Proust's madeleines, the distillation of the immediate and fleeting, a pulse that slows and gives one rare focus--this tuna, on this birthday morning, could not have happened anywhere as it has happened here.

It was about now that the lovely man handed us bowls of the best miso soup I've ever had. Maybe it was just nice to be sipping something savory and steaming on a cold day. Or maybe it was because it was stare-back soup.

But seriously, the amaebi (deep sea shrimp) heads impart a subtle sweetness and tomalley oomph that ups the unami ante to near-infinity. Cremebruleed translated that we could have as much soup as we wanted, but we practiced restraint and saved room for the arriving feast.

Next two--on the right, hotate (scallop) and...hirame (fluke)? (Suimasen, I've got a white fish memory gap.)

I've always been a fan of raw scallops, and this beauty was like sea-candy. The fluke was a surprisingly welcome stripe of firm, oceany flesh that helped to counterbalance its voluptuous mollusk companion.

Next up--mackerel (aji, I think):

I'm not sure if these two were different cuts from the same mackerel, or if they were two different kinds of mackerel, but aji is an unsung sushi pick in the States, and we are the poorer for it. They were as meaty and full as tuna, but with a oilier punch that was tempered with grated ginger and scallion. If tuna is beef, then mackerel is lamb; gamier, at once leaner and fattier, and totally delicious.

A long-time fave, amaebi (deep sea shrimp) ballet-slipper tails being reunited with their head-soup:

Make no mistake; they're raw. The pink is because they're from abysmal depths, where only faint sunlight penetrates, and being red helps them to camouflage from predators (ty, Blue Planet!)

They're so teeny that it's two tails to one bed of rice, tender and even sweeter than the scallops.

Uni (sea urchin, AKA funky cheese of the sea) is easily one of my top 10 foods of all time:

Salty, creamy, and the death of me. There were heaps and heaps of it at the market, and it was all I could do to suppress my inner sea otter from going into a feeding frenzy.

Now here was one that was new to me and SSFL-- nama shirasu (raw whitebait). We angled our heads and giggled at the 'lil peepers.

"Freedom!!!"

Might be a tough sell for 'mericans:

1) Because of the stare-back factor.
2) Because of the slippery, distinct-small-separate fish texture.

The sushi master prompted us not to use shoyu for this one, as he'd sauced and topped them with ginger and scallions.

I know this'll seem like a cop-out, but they tasted...like the ocean. Like seawater with a metallic tang, the way you'd get with some oysters. For those hippies out there, it's doesn't get more sustainable than whitebait. So suck it up, stare back and eat; 'twas tasty!

Not new, but luscious:

Anago (conger eel): Thin, warm, lightly grilled; mouth-melting, familiar and starling (like much of this meal!). Like the lighter, sexier cousin of the stuff we get at home. In a slip.

We ate a tuna roll. You don't need to see that. But it meant that it was time to choose our last 2 pieces. We scanned the counter like kittens at a fishbowl. SFFL and I went with something we'd seen at the market and was curious about--whole baby squid:

...and I also got ikura (salmon roe), another old favorite. The squidlets were served with a dallop of white miso, and tasted reminiscent of the whitebait--a lil minerally, briny, the sweetness of the squid mingling with that of the miso.

Nice, but I'd have to give the round to the ikura, which ate like good caviar--every pearl distinct, plump, yielding the fat of salmon-to-be. Amazing.

Last one, promise. SSFL and Cremebruleed spied something unfamiliar in the case--something white and tubular. The lovely man was quick to take out the plate and show us: 'Twas tako (octopus) legs, with the pigment and suckers removed. Both ladies opted to try it as their last pieces:

Instead of shoyu, it was sprinkled with a little sea salt and yuzu zest. Both now-full ladies chewed contentedly, and seemed happy with their choice to brave the stripped tentacle.

It was raining, cold, and not even noon as we gave our profuse thanks to the sushi master and tumbled back into the market.

I have (and will sorrowfully continue to) pay twice as much for sushi half this good, in fancypants places that should kiss this modest man's feet. But all of New York can do nothing but poorly mimic this experience: Sitting in the fish market, shoulder to shoulder with likewise lucky girls, slowly chewing sushi as if for the first time.

It's hard not to feel incredibly grateful. Thank you, Cremebruleed, for leading us here; thank you, SSFL, for spurring this amazing trip.

Again, sorry, no idea of the name, but I marked its whereabouts on the eats map in yellow.

So much more to eat! Stay tuned for yet MORE Tsukiji, and Tokyo at large; pardon the delays. I'm still FN full.

View EF in Tokyo! in a larger map

SWEET! Effing Foodie a la Saveur Magazine!

2010-05-03T18:42:25-04:00

Life is funny. One lucky day, you're sitting on a beach with your best friend, just eating lunch...

...and a year later, said lunch ends up on your favorite magazine's website.

YEAH!!!

Much love to Alli and Brandon, who led me to this box from Nu'uanu Okazuya, and countless other meals I still dream of.