F for Food

Good To Go

2012-01-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

Goddammit. I’m sick.

It’s irritating on obvious levels. But the big rub is that I walk around, all puffed up like a peacock most of the time, touting that I simply do not get sick. But anyone can take one look at me right now and know that’s a load of crap. It would appear I have temporarily acquired Walter Matthau’s nose and I am entirely unable to pronounce any words involving the letters N and/or M. And let’s not even mention the small mountain range of soiled tissues that have become my number one accessory of late.

But oddly I have not lost my appetite.

It is now a new year: 2012. I welcome this year. I’d say it’s already off to an auspicious start. Well, except for the whole sick thing. But I suppose it’s worth it. Fred was sick before me, you see.

Wait, that's right, I was in a car accident last week. No one was hurt, but my car went through over a grand worth of repairs. The other car was fine. I suppose it was all officially my fault, but those tourists stopped at a green light!

Okay, so I’m sick and I caused a car accident that has set me back a considerable chunk of green. All in the first week and a half of a new year that I am heralding as auspicious. Hey, I’m in a good mood, what can I say?

Things look bright. I am going on a mini getaway next weekend to someplace called Inverness. Apparently I will not even have cell service there. I find this to be both frightening and tantalizing. It looks like it will rain there that weekend, so we are anticipating much cooking and snuggles. Works for me. Then, in February, my dad and his girlfriend are coming to visit. I always get excited for some QT with Pops. Plus we always eat out a lot at all the fun places he hasn’t been yet. Cha-ching!

Anyway, things just feel right in 2012 despite the sickies and the car situation.

In case you, my fellow Angelinos, have not noticed, 2012 thus far has hardly been Wintery. In fact, it’s been downright Summery. I do believe it was in the nineties last week. I guess it’s fine. I can’t do much about it anyway. Although, being sick seems even worse when it’s warm and blue and sparkly out. It makes me feel guilty for curling up in a ball with my box of tissues, hot tea and a blanket.

So I won't.

I like to pretend I’m not sick. I’m out in the world. I’m sitting at one of my haunts, Cheebo, having something I have been eating at least once a week for a couple of years, now. It doesn’t matter if it’s Winter or Summer, I can eat their chopped salad any season. I often come here to write (free wi-fi), and Uncle Dougertons and I historically meet up about once a week-ish to have dinner. We always split the chopped salad to start. And we always sit at the bar.

The staff knows me, and my glass of sauvignon blanc is always placed in front of me right as I seat myself. They know not to allow me to eat more than one ramekin of their complimentary home-made potato chips. Sometimes I bring the kitchen fresh herbs from my garden to use. When the power goes out in the canyon I will camp out at Cheebo and read and graze and sip for hours.

Cheebo is not cool or hip or in or sceney. It’s really orange inside and has pretty garish artwork on the walls. The music is usually a little bit too loud and not as calm as I’d like. There is a television above the bar that is always on (though I do appreciate that during baseball season). But there is something to be said for our neighborhood spots. The places that provide us with a sense of community and comfort. Places that are inexpensive with solid food and perfectly acceptable wines by the glass.

So, here I sit, sick with an appetite, at the bar at Cheebo, in the middle of a Wednesday. I’ve got a glass of ice water, a bowl of cream of broccoli soup and my favorite salad. Ever. As I’ve been writing this I realized that, while I have Tweeted and Four Squared Cheebo and my salad love, I have never written about them. And so I feel they deserve their due (and they deliver!).

I’m pretty sure the guy sitting next to me at the bar is sick too. He’s drinking hot tea and has a tissue. I sure hope he is because my ears are blown out from blowing my nose and I can’t hear. So I can’t tell if I just burped loudly or quietly, and more importantly, if he heard me.

Cheebo: Good To Go

7533 W. Sunset Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90046

323.850.7070

One year ago: Cremini Mushroom & Meyer Lemon Risotto

Two years ago: Chocolate & Chile de Arbol Brownies

FOUR years ago: Oyster Stew

Dominoes

2011-12-31T14:05:00.000-08:00

I have been noodling with different ideas for my end-of-the-year post for about a week or so now. I bandied about the idea of a 2011 ‘round-up’ and even started that one – I got two paragraphs in and everything. I guess I abandoned it when I realized 2011 has been a year I have been kind of ambivalent about. I mean, it has been quite a year. A year that feels like a minute. But, without trying to sound maudlin, a year I’m perfectly fine with passing into a new one.

Admittedly, I am tremendously excited about 2012. But I ought not get my panties in a bunch about a year that has not yet begun.

2011 has had a lot of beauty, don’t get me wrong. It has just been very Big. I have seen some friends go away and come back, seen some friendships become incredibly fueled and intense in both good and bad ways, seen some go away never to return again and I feel I have been strengthening my relationship with my mom. I have eaten a mountain of amazing food, drunk vats of delicious wine, added a beautifully intense Chihuahua to my family, danced in closed restaurants with random people until four o’clock in the morning, traveled through Europe with friends and family; at times cried myself to sleep on the couch but at times also wanted to spin around on top of a mountain singing with joy.

But I’ve wanted something that hasn’t been there. Something I have been missing for some time. Something I didn’t even realize I forgot what it felt like. Until I felt it. Again. And, as a result, right this minute, as 2011 is about to slide into 2012, I am so very full and warm and fuzzy and happy. But I did just eat a pile of carnitas/asparagus/bacon/potato hash with two fried eggs on top.

The past couple of days I have thinking a lot about dominoes. It clearly began on Christmas Eve. Fred and I made dinner. We roasted a turkey, stuffed with Meyer lemon, covered in a weave of bacon and served with a sherry-pan gravy, a burrata and beet salad, roasted parsnips and my Brussels sprouts with toasted hazelnuts in a sage-brown butter. We also riffed on a recipe I had seen in Bon Appetît a few months back called ‘domino potatoes’. I had been wanting to prepare it since I first saw it, so I was excited. It’s a beautiful dish.

But then I started thinking about dominoes and moreover, tesselation, in general. In the area of math, the word domino often refers to any rectangle formed from joining two congruent squares edge to edge. To go in a bit further, tessellation is the process of creating a two-dimensional plane using the repetition of a geometric shape with no overlaps and no gaps. Generalizations to higher dimensions are also possible. Think M. C. Escher.

One use of dominoes is standing them on end in long lines so that when the first tile is toppled, it topples the second, which topples the third, etc., resulting in all of the tiles falling. By analogy, the phenomenon of small events causing similar events leading to eventual catastrophe is called the domino effect.

Well, over the past month, I have been toppling and my walls have been falling. There have been moments where I have feared the possibility of eventual (or immediate) catastrophe. I guess I big part of me still harbors that fear. But I have simultaneously felt a form of tessellation has occurred – its as though a plane with no overlaps or gaps has been created. With two congruent squares, edge to edge, a rectangle has been formed and, as a result, higher dimensions are now possible.

And this, my friends, is one of the primary reasons I am so very much looking into that which the possibility of 2012 holds. Right now, it seems infinite.

I wish each and every one of you a beautiful and inspired 2012...

Roasted Domino Potatoes

Serves 8

Ingredients

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, divided

3 1/2 pounds Idaho potatoes (4-6 large)

1 tablespoon chopped, fresh rosemary

4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

24 (about) fresh or dried bay leaves

Kosher salt and fleur de sel

Fresh cracked pepper

Preparation

Preheat oven to 425°. Brush a 13x9x2" baking dish or cast-iron griddle with 2 Tbsp. butter. Peel potatoes and trim ends (do not rinse). Trim all 4 sides of potatoes to form a rectangle. Using a mandoline, cut potatoes crosswise into 1/8" slices, keeping slices in stacks as best you can.

Re-form slices from each potato into a stack. Place in prepared dish, fanning apart slightly like a deck of cards. Insert bay leaves and garlic between potato slices at even intervals. Season with rosemary,salt and pepper and drizzle with remaining 4 Tbsp. butter.

Bake potatoes, rotating the dish halfway through cooking, until the edges are crisp and golden and the centers are tender, about 1 hour. Sprinkle with fleur de sel.

Printable recipe

One year ago: Vinegar-Braised Chicken with Garlic and Celery Leaves

To years ago: 2009: The Year of the Food Truck

I'm Totally Rushing You In the Fall.

2011-12-21T13:13:00.000-08:00

Things are happy. Things are good. Business is good, things feel pretty stable, and, on these crisp nights, I can rock layers (clothing). Thanksgiving has passed and Christmas is coming up really fast. Usually I am a pretty major Christmas geek. I love Christmas music, the tree, the decorating, the parties, the excuse to be over dressed and wear sparkly things, the excuse to be over dressed, wearing sparkly thinks while drinking sparkly things.

This year I don’t feel as much like Mother Christmas as I usually do. I don’t foresee having my annual Christmas party, I’m entirely unclear what I’m giving to whom as gifts (and I usually have that on lockdown months before), and I’m not even getting a tree. I have dug the big boxes of Christmas from the garage, so that’s a start.

A lot of this could be because of the timing of the most recent Dinner at Eight. That would have been last Friday. But even though that’s over and done with, I don’t feel like I can concentrate on things. I am decidedly distracted. I’ve barely even written anything this month. But maybe that’s because I have a crush.

I do.

And it (he) has taken quite a bit of my physical and mental space over the past few weeks. He’s coming over for dinner tonight. I haven’t cooked for him yet. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? I cook for people all the time. I cook for friends, family and even complete strangers. All. The. Time. And yet I’m nervous to cook for Fred tonight. I know I’m going to make my oyster stew. However, I don’t know what will follow. I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure it will be better than fine. I’m sure it will be delicious and fun.

But I’ve still got the swirlies. Ugh.

Anyway, this past Sunday we spent the better part of the day making cassoulet. I’ve wanted to make cassoulet for forevers. It’ one of my very most favorite dishes. Cassoulet night at Lucques is something I look forward to all year (that’s coming up, by the way). Our cassoulet making was a really fun process that began with procuring our Meat(s) at Lindy & Grundy around one o’clock and ended on Fred’s couch, chowing down at about eleven o’clock. And that was with the fast soak on the cannelini beans. We spent a good deal of the down time doing the Sunday crossword and watching In A Lonely Place (best movie, ever). It all worked out really nicely. It was good times and good food, I must admit. And, as you know, I do so love a Process. And a Sunday. And a cassoulet.

So, back to tonight. I’m thinking either scallops or a stuffed pork tenderloin. Something with beets? I welcome your thoughts on the matter. Regardless, I’ll keep you posted on how tonight’s meal turns out. Promise.

Our Sunday Cassoulet

Serves 6-8

1 lb. dried cannelini beans
10 tbsp. duck fat

16 cloves garlic, smashed
5 shallots, chopped3 carrots, chopped

1 large ham hock
1 lb. lamb neck, cut into 1"cubes
1⁄2 lb. pancetta, cubed
4 sprigs oregano
4 sprigs thyme
3 bay leaves
1 cup whole peeled canned tomatoes
1 1/2 cup white wine
2 cups chicken stock

2 confit duck legs (we used chicken legs)
1 lb. pork sausages
2 cups bread crumbs

Soak beans in a 4-qt. bowl in 7 1⁄2 cups water overnight. Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 6-qt. pot over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic, shallots, and carrots and cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add ham hock along with beans and their water and boil. Reduce heat and simmer beans until tender, about 1 1⁄2 hours.

Transfer ham hock to a plate; let cool. Pull off meat; discard skin, bone, and gristle. Chop meat; add to beans. Set aside.

Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 5-qt. dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add lamb and brown for 8 minutes. Add pancetta; cook for 5 minutes. Add remaining garlic, onions, and carrots; cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Tie together oregano, thyme, and bay leaves with twine; add to pan with tomatoes; cook until liquid thickens, 8–10 minutes. Add wine; reduce by half. Add broth; boil. Reduce heat to medium-low; cook, uncovered, until liquid has thickened, about 1 hour. Discard herbs; set dutch oven aside.

Meanwhile, sear duck legs in 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat for 8 minutes; transfer to a plate. Brown sausages in the fat, about 8 minutes. Cut sausages into 1⁄2" slices. Pull duck meat off bones. Discard fat and bones. Stir duck and sausages into pork stew.

Heat oven to 300˚. Mix beans and pork stew in a 4-qt. cast iron dutch oven. Cover with bread crumbs; drizzle with remaining duck fat. Bake, uncovered, for 3 hours. Raise oven temperature to 500˚; cook cassoulet until crust is golden, about 5 minutes.

Printable recipe

One year ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce
Two years ago: The Flying Pig Truck

Duck, Duck, Fat: Dinner at Sun Ha Jang.

2011-12-05T17:06:00.001-08:00

This past Saturday night was very exciting. First off, I may or may not have been on a date. But more importantly, I was taken to two (2) places in my City of Angels that I had never been nor had any prior knowledge of. That’s pretty rare.

I was sent an email a day or two before Saturday with a link to the prodigious Mr. Gold’s review of our restaurant destination: Sun Ha Jang. So I was aware and prepared for whatever lay ahead. That would be duck. Excitement mounted.

At precisely seven o’clock (right on time!) I was picked up and off we went. To Koreatown. And just as I was noticing the façade for a spa I sent my mom to as a gift for Christmas some years ago that left her with PTSD to this day (another story), we were parked smack in front of the restaurant.

Sun Ha Jang was bright, but not too bright, tidy, small and about halfway filled up. I think this was about seven thirty. We were seemingly the only non-Koreans in the house, which was a comforting sign. We were seated immediately and handed golden menus with those hologramy-winky pictures in them. We hardly perused the menu at all before our server came over to get our order. This was fine as we didn’t really know what we were doing and we were pretty much going to go for what was suggested from the review. The Roasted Duck. I’m guessing they were used to Korean food dilettantes coming in, clutching their ~~reference guides~~ Smart Phones since she just kindly nodded, and knew exactly what to deliver.

So right after we got our bottle of soju, a bottle of cold tea, and the usual assortment of panchan, kimchi and marinated bean sprouts, came the sliced duck. Our server was kind to us and guided us through The Process wordlessly. She gingerly placed the round, thick, marbled and fatty duck slices on the griddle in the center of the table with a generous smattering of whole cloves of garlic. Then she picked up a chunklet of kimchi and used it to plug the griddle's drain. We later realized this was to preserve all that glorious duck fat.

After just a few minutes we started to pick at the duck, flipping it and whatnot as I had read that we should by no means allow them to condense into chewy nubs. This was when our server hustled back over to assist, and also where I will insert my companion’s only sound bite from the evening for this post, “Aside from the yumminess of the duck and duck fat roasted garlic and the good company, what sticks in my mind the most was the maternal weariness with which the waitress took over as she watched my relative clumsiness in flipping the duck over on the griddle.”

Did you see that? I’m good company!

Anyway.

When the duck was ready to come off the griddle our server even showed us how to assemble and eat everything together. She made a whole presentation on Date’s plate. The result was not unlike a duck salad: the chopped, dressed lettuce with a few slivers of marinated onion, and a little julienned pickled radish, garnished with the duck topped with a few strands of sliced Korean leek and a small dollop of chili paste. It was fresh and clean, yet rich and unctuous. Each bite was crisp, cool and bright right alongside with being warm, supple and lush.

After a little more time and a lot more bites, the cloves of garlic were all roasty, with crisp outsides and warm, oozy insides. At this point I just wanted to eat bites of the garlic rubbed over slices of the now, ever so slightly brittled duck meat that remained.

But there was more. I knew it was coming and I was aflutter. Our server then brought us a bowl of rice cooked with beans and dumped it onto the griddle, sprinkling it with herbs and sesame seeds. And there it sizzled away as it cooked in that beautiful, seasoned duck fat until it was perfectly crunchety on the bottom.

And then I was sated.

I very much enjoyed my meal and my experience at Sun Ha Jang. I do so love a process. An interactive meal, so to speak. The company was pretty great too.

And then we were off, into the night. Off to destination number two, and as mentioned above, yet another new experience for me, a bar called 1642. This place serves only wine and beer, is perfectly dark and plays almost-but-not-too-loud-and-very-good jazz. Wine and conversation ensued.

This was a good night.

One year ago: Salt's Cure
Two years ago: Grace

Frankly, my dear...

2011-11-27T14:09:00.001-08:00

I watched Gone With the Wind for the 7,539^th time on Thanksgiving. We couldn’t find Home For the Holidays on TV and Maggie had never seen it before. Seemed like a good idea. That film has always had a profound effect on me, but usually in that hopeless-romantic-why-can’t-Rhett-and-Scarlett-just-figure-it-out-already-and-realize-they’re-meant-to-be-together way. As usual, I was a bumbling mess of tears and sniffles when Rhett walked out the door, but this time, for a different reason. I again found myself really identifying with Scarlett, but for a different reason.

Yes, I always appreciate her spirit, her determination, her independence, her fortitude, her bitchiness, her passion. Her moxie. But this time I really saw what propelled these qualities.

Tara.

It made me think hard on that from which we draw our strength. Or, perhaps, that from which I feel I’ve drawn my strength recently.

The little brick house with the big blue doors. Grove Ave. Richmond. Home.

I don’t know what it is. I realize that, while the climate changes with each season, and, depending on where you fall on the matter, global warming, it also changes in our public and private lives. In our cities, our communities and ourselves. And I feel a new wind blowing through mine.

Los Angeles is so many things to me. The most complicated relationship I’ve ever had in my life is the one I have with this city. And yes, I do call it home. But, even at a fairly steady seventy-five degrees year-round, it can often feel very cold.

It loves me and I love it but rarely at exactly the same time do we love each other exactly the same way. And isn’t that always the rub?

I fancy to label myself as strong. And while, I think if I were in a horror movie, I’d probably play dead to fool the killer and not get killed, I really am a fighter. Or, perhaps, I am a survivor. I left home right after I graduated high school deigning never to return (to live). And since graduating from college in Ohio in the mid-1990s, I have been on a trajectory that has taken me to city after city, each one bigger and busier (and traffic-ier) than the one prior. And all the while I’ve been fighting. I’ve been trying prove something. Right now I’m just not so sure what.

And so lately I think It has all been catching up to me. I’m really tired. I mean, really tired. I feel like I’ve been a player in Running Man or something. I want to sleep. I want to sleep for a long time. Like, a whole day. I want to sleep and I want someone to rub my head. I want to be the Scarlett that Rhett so longed she would let herself be, but just didn’t know how. And I don’t want to be the Scarlett that realized all of this when it was too late.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Photo by Maggie.

I mentioned a month or so ago that I think I just need to go home more frequently. I think it’s as simple as that. I think that once the holidays have passed, and my work slows down, I will do just that. Then and there I will sleep (if Dad lets me). I will fuel up, regain strength. And then I can return to my City of Angels bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

After all… tomorrow is another day.

My mom has been baking cranberry nut bread for as long as I can remember, usually around the holidays. And, although I have never wanted anything to do with cooked fruit, for some reason I have always loved this bread. And so - not unlike Scarlett and Rhett, or me and my City of Angels - here we have another complicated relationship. And one that’s worth it.

This bread is perfect lightly toasted with butter alongside your morning coffee and, perhaps your Scarlett or your Rhett...

Classic Cranberry Nut Bread

Makes 1 loaf

Ingredients:

2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 cup orange juice
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
2 tablespoons shortening
1 egg, well beaten
1 1/2 cups fresh cranberries, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup chopped pecans

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Grease a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan.

Mix together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda in a medium mixing bowl. Stir in orange juice, orange peel, shortening and egg. Mix until well blended. Stir in cranberries and pecans. Spread evenly in loaf pan.

Bake for 55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack for 15 minutes. Remove from pan; cool completely. Wrap and store overnight.

Printable recipe

Two years ago: Bool BBQ Truck

Simplicity: The Hallmark of Genius

2011-11-22T15:00:00.001-08:00

My mother's name Kathryn Virginia. My grandmother called her Divinia (Virginia jumbled up and pronounced similarly) and nicknamed her Divi. Most Virginia's are nicknamed Ginny or Ginger but my grandmother had her own special naming and language process. My grandmother had her own special way of doing most things. The mother of five, she became weary of hearing "Mom, oh Mom, Mama" from her brood. Once she announced that she was to be addressed as Brenda (not even close to her name: Esther), so for almost a month she would not respond to anything but Brenda.

If you recall, my mom also has her own special, shall we say, language. Recently, water has turned into watzee, Maggie is Magothy, and I’m still Tweeters. I too have fun playing with my words. So I suppose the apple has not fallen far from the tree for the past three generations.

My grandmother passed away when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I don’t think I knew her all that well but do I have some very specific snapshots of her and her world. First of all, I swear she looked just like Roy Orbison. There was often cream chipped beef on toast happening in the kitchen. And one time, when I was crying about something, she gave me a Monchichi coloring book to try to lift my spirits. I used to love those Monchichis. I remember really loving her bathtub, and I can also recall a hole in the floor upstairs in her house that looked down into the kitchen. I had all of my Christmas mornings at her house in Roanoke until she passed away.

Apparently Grandma made a very involved and very decadent rum cake of which my mom has a very specific, very visceral memory. According to Mom, the cake took days. Part of its process involved wrapping the cake in a rum-soaked towel overnight. Apparently this cake weighed about as much as the family dog. Mom has been trying to unearth that recipe for quite some time now, to no avail.

I’m spending today writing this and trying to track down a recipe that fits the bill for that elusive cake. I'm poring through vintage cookbooks, asking my food cohorts via Twitter, and searching online. I even sent an email to Aunt Babe and Noel. We shall see. If unearthed, this will be the cake served at the December 16^th Dinner at Eight. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime I am going to share with you the recipe for the most elegant, yet simple, hors d'oeuvres I can imagine. They are little onion sandwiches and they were served at the most recent Dinner at Eight during cocktail hour. I had been hearing about them for years. Mom used to make them in her café back in Richmond and they were a hit. My dad even called me one time after he stopped by a party for their mutual friend, Breeda, where Mom had served them. He said he ate five of them in as many minutes and then had to promptly leave because of his onion breath. I guess they were so good, he sacrificed the party for the sandwiches. Priorities.

The success of this dish depends on the quality of the bread used and the thinness of the onion-slice filling, which must be nearly transparent. I highly recommend using a mandoline. And, of course, you must use Duke’s mayonnaise.

Divinia’s Tea Sandwiches

12 servings

24 slices of a fine-textured white bread
36 small, wafer-thin slices raw sweet onion
1 ½ cup Duke’s mayonnaise
Salt to taste
1 cup minced parsley

Cut the slices of bread into rounds with a small biscuit cutter (or a water glass), about one inch diameter.

Choose small onions and slice them so that each circle will be a little smaller than the bread rounds.

Spread each piece of bread with mayonnaise. On half the pieces arrange the onion slice and season with salt. Cover the onion with the remaining pieces of bread to assemble sandwiches.

Spread the remaining mayonnaise on a wooden board and sprinkle the chopped parsley on another board. Hold each sandwich round lightly between thumb and finger so it will turn like a wheel. Roll the edge in mayonnaise, then in parsley. Set the sandwiches, as they are completed, on waxed paper and chill thoroughly.

Printable recipe

Two years ago: Buttermilk Corn Soup with Curry & Mint

M.B. Post - And a Girl Date.

2011-11-16T00:09:00.001-08:00

With a little less than a week to go, I have successfully tested, at least once, every recipe for the next Dinner at Eight. I have delivered one of everything to Jill so she can assess her pairings. I have used all of the leftovers to deliver lunches to various folks around Hollywood and I still have a refrigerator that is fecund with said food.

And yet I wanted none of it for dinner last night.

And so I grabbed up Nastassia and headed to Manhattan Beach to finally sample David Lefevre’s kitchen skills at his, highly praised, M.B. Post. My interest was piqued about Lefevre after I tasted but only one dish a few months back at the Test Kitchen reunion. The downstairs of the townhouse (Sotto) had Steve Samson & Zach Pollack hosting Walter Manzke, Nancy Silverton, David and Matt Molina (Mozza). And some cat named David Lefevre whose last job was executive chef at Water Grill.

When I scrolled down the menu, I surprisingly whipped past all of the chef’s-who-I-was-geeked-about’s dishes and became fixated upon Lefevre’s Braised Pork with Crispy Gnocchi, Summer Squash, Bianco Sardo. Without minimizing any of the other chef’s dishes or skills, as the meal in its entirety was remarkable, that braised pork dish, without hesitation, stole the show. And I was not alone with this opinion.

My friend, Emma, and I were also fortunate enough to be seated at the two spots that gaze directly into the kitchen, smack in front of Lefevre’s station. We both thoroughly enjoyed watching him and having some light banter towards the end of the evening (during which we both promised to hit up his new spot, M.B. Post posthaste).

Cut to last night.

It’s not too often I stray from my Hollysphere, but I am rarely a pantywaist about doing so. I guess I just need the right partner to be down with me. Enter Nastassia, and a perfectly pleasant and lovely drive from my Canyon to the most perfect parking place right next to our destination in Manhattan Beach. Easy breezy.

We were shocked to see the place straight up bustling at eight o’clock on a Monday night. Regardless, our hostess was able to seat us immediately at one of the smaller communal tables.

I look around. I dig it. It’s happy. It’s warm and comfortable. It’s confident. It reflects no affectation. I’m surrounded by flip flops, suits, no make-up, lip jobs, cute boys, frat-types, darling dresses, jeans, button-downs, tee-shirts, regulars and newbies alike. And, hey, it’s in an old post office!

Our smiling server, with her Rachel Ray-cute looks and Rita Hayworth-sultry voice, was directly present to get our drinks and had a pretty astute knowledge of the wines on the (solid) list. I went for the Pierre Soulez ‘chateau de chamboureau - grand cru’ savennieres, loire, france, 09 ($13.50).

After slightly too long, as Nastassia and I were chatty-chat-orama, we got down to it and ordered a few things in the food department from the menu that wanted to take us on a trip around the globe. We began with the bacon cheddar buttermilk biscuits with maple butter ($5), blistering Blue Lake green beans with Thai basil, chili sauce and crispy pork ( $9) and the roasted brussels sprouts with Emmental, hazelnuts and sage ($9).

The biscuits were downright magnificent. Warm, with burny-crispies on the outside and downy and steamy on the inside, peppered with little chunklets of bacon and infused with cheesiness throughout. Then I tried a bite with the butter. It’s a good thing I got to that butter when I did. Nastassia was threatening to lick the ramekin clean… Yes, that’s how good.

As we giggled in the reverie of the biscuits and got into a little bit of fun girl-talk, our blistery green beans and our roasty brussels sprouts appeared before us. I love a green bean and I love a brussels sprout even more. These were both special, but the green beans really sparkled here. They were perfectly cooked, crisp, but with a give, and accented with bold, heavy flavors. The pork was rich, succulent and salty and added another layer of nuance and texture to the bright and fresh beans.

Roasted brussels sprouts are something I not only do at home, with great frequency, but I see out often on menus at establishments ranging from gastro pubs to fine dining. More often than not, their preparation with hazelnuts, brown butter, slow-roasted to an almost perfect storm of burn and caramelization is ubiquitous on these menus. This wasn’t a far cry from that, but I will say that I loved that the brussels sprouts were huge, well-prepared and the Emmental and sage were elegant and apt touches.

At our server's suggestion, I moved on to a glass of the Saxon-Brown "cricket creek vineyard" semillon, Alexander Valley, Sonoma, 08 ($11.50).

Then we were delivered the Japanese hamachi with yuzu koshu, avocado, puffed forbidden rice ($12) and the Vietnamese caramel pork jowl with green papaya salad and lime ($13). I thought the hamachi was fresh, elegant and delicious. I thought that the dish was conceptually, perfect. But I also thought that the puffed forbidden rice was very big and thick and crunchy and intense. It battled with the delicate and perfect hamachi a bit. I would have loved it just as much sans puffed forbidden rice.

The pork jowl was divine. It. Was. Divine. It was unctuous, fatty, savory, sweet, acidic, crisp, soft and utterly delectable. This and the green beans are, in my humble opinion must haves.

This is normally where I would call it a night, food-wise, and just continue on my wine trajectory. But I was with Natstassia… hello? So, yes, we ordered the Spiced Honeycrisp apple handpies with salted caramel sauce ($7).

I ordered a tawny port to go with this.

It was awesome. It really was. Nastassia was over the moon. We deduced that there must be lard in that perfect salty crust. I ate a few bites, even with the cooked fruit situation, but I liked it a lot. For a more discerned palate’s dialogue on the dish, I suggest you stay tuned for Nastassia’s words on the matter.

But we were really happy. This is a good place. This is a smart place. We both want to return.

One year ago today: Sausage Over Creamy Lentils

Two years ago today: Grilled Cheese Night at Campanile

Mozart. Music. Flowers & poetry.

2011-11-06T15:41:00.000-08:00

It’s Sunday morning, we’ve just gained an hour, and it’s pouring down rain. It’s perfect. The next Dinner at Eight is creeping up and I’ve been testing recipes like it’s nobody’s business (or definitely like it’s my business). I’m very pleased with the creamy chestnut soup, though I haven’t settled on its garnish. The only problem with the soup is that I gave all my friends samples of it and completely forgot to take some to Jill so she can assess an appropriate paIring. So I’ll be making that again today.

Maggie is infusing the vodka with kabocha and acorn squash for her cocktail and Esi just dropped off her first go at the pumpkin bread pudding with bourbon-vanilla sauce. And I have made two, overly massive, rounds of the short-rib stew with mushroom and parsley dumplings. The second one pretty much nailed it.

Save for the anxiety dream in which I told the guests the wrong date resulting in no one showing up, I think everything is on course.

It seems things are going well in my universe. Things are stable. Work is picking up, I finally caught up on Sons of Anarchy and sleep, and an old, college friend, Frampy, stopped through town for a visit. That was nice. Mostly.

But let’s get back to the stew. And the dumplings. You see, I had never made dumplings before this whole project. I didn’t really know exactly what to expect. The recipe I used is from The Colony Club Cookbook: one of the dozen old school cookbooks I brought back from my recent trip to Richmond. The recipes in this – and many of the cookbooks from this place and time – are very archaic and very, very simple. They are made for people who were already familiar with the techniques and ingredients that they require and also with how the end result should look, feel, smell, and taste. They are short and sweet.

But for someone like me, who is accustomed to Sunday Suppers at Lucques, with recipes that are pages long, these old school cookbooks are so simple that they become complex.

For instance, with this stew (recipe originally from Gloria Brahany), after searing off the short ribs in their flour mixture, I am supposed to combine four cups tomatoes, some garlic and a little Worcestershire, simmer for and hour and a half and pour over ribs. Fresh tomatoes? Canned tomatoes? This is my stock? No red wine? No chicken or beef stock? The rest of the directions instruct me to add sliced carrot, onion, potato, and simmer for forty-five minutes. Well, that’s hardly enough time to get the veggies all soft and smushy. Where’s the bay leaf? Where’s the thyme? Hell, where’s the salt and pepper?

Apparently the good folks using this cookbook needed only some bare bones, a skeleton off of which they could riff. And it’s true, a basic beef stew is not rocket science. But what’s the point of a cookbook then, right?

So first off the lack of anything except tomato that would create liquid bemused me. But the tomatoes quickly became a viable stock, if a bit too sweet. And too tomato-y. Also, Maggie thought that we should do mushroom and parsley dumplings rather than just parsley dumplings. Without thinking I followed the recipe for parsley dumplings and did not compensate for the amount of moisture the mushrooms would add. The dumplings fell apart if you merely looked at them too hard.

Okay. Round two. This time I began with marinating the short ribs in red wine, salt and pepper overnight. I then used about half the tomatoes but added two cups of home made chicken stock and a quarter cup of the marinade wine. I doubled the garlic, added a bay leaf, a sprig of fresh sage, a little thyme and a generous amount of salt and pepper. For the dumplings I compensated for the moisture by adding a great deal more flour, less milk and a drop more salt. I also made the dumplings considerably smaller as they poof up twice their original size once they steam up. They still looked weird to me, but after I did some research online, they looked exactly the way they were supposed to.

Another example of how stripped down the instructions in the cookbook are. There is no description of how things are supposed to turn out.

The fact that I used LindyGrundy’s meat the second go ‘round also made a world of difference. I would have used theirs the first time but they were closed on the day I needed to get started. Of course, their meat will be used for the stew at the dinner party.

So, in the time it’s taken me to write this, the sun has come out and the sky is clear and bright blue. I’ve still got that extra hour. It’s perfect.

But we are full-on in the throes of Fall and Winter is three weeks away. The holidays are not far off. It’s time for stew.

Short Rib Stew with Mushroom & Parsley Dumplings

Serves 6

Cut 2 lbs beef short ribs into serving pieces. Marinate in red wine overnight.

Combine 1/4 cup all-purpose flour, 1 tbsp salt, 1/4 tsp pepper; dredge ribs in mixture and brown on all sides in 2 tbsp hot fat.

Combine ribs with 2 1/2 cups chopped Roma tomatoes, 2 cups chicken or beef stock, 1/4 cup marinade wine, 4 cloves of chopped garlic & 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce. Cover and simmer for 2 hours.

Add 4 sliced carrots, 2 medium onions, chopped, 1 medium potato, peeled and chopped, 1 bay leaf, a sprig of fresh sage and a tsp of thyme. Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally for 2 more hours.

Skim off the fat and season with salt & pepper to taste.

Mushroom & Parsley Dumplings

Sift together 1 1/2 cup sifted all-purpose flour, 2 tsp baking powder, 3/4 tsp salt. Add 1/4 cup chopped parsley and 3 tbsp chopped mushrooms. Combine 1/4 cup milk and 2 tbsp vegetable oil, and add to dry ingredients. Stir just until flour is dampened.

Form small, large-marble sized balls atop bubbling stew. Cover tightly and bring to a boil. Reduce heat (do not lift cover!) and simmer for 15 minutes longer.

Printable Recipe

One year ago today: SugarFISH
Two years ago today: Scallops with Wild Mushroom Risotto & Rosé Fonduta

The Blue Goat: RVA Goes Nose-to-Tail

2011-10-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

As you know, I very recently visited my hometown, Richmond, Virginia. Richmond has pretty sweet restaurants and I have been lucky enough to sample many of them throughout my life. The city is flecked with small, intimate corner cafes and independent bistros with thoughtful food, kind staff and, more often than not, big windows and pressed tin ceilings. And, almost always, a welcoming bar where one can comfortably sit and eat.

To this day that is the style of dining experience to which I am drawn. I prefer small spaces with big food.

Prior to arriving on this particular trip, Paz, Dad and I decided to share a meal out together on my first night in town. We all settled on the Blue Goat, a new venture by Chris Tsui and chef, Kevin La Civita (Osaka, Sushi-O and Wild Ginger) with a nose-to-tail concept. Here in LA we are certainly not for want in this department. We have Animal, Sotto, Gorbals, Lazy Ox Canteen, of course, Salt’s Cure (my favorite), to name a few. But for Richmond this is pretty damned cool. Their products are also all sourced from local farms including the much lauded Polyface Farm. I was excited.

We had 8pm reservations on a Friday night, rolled in right on time into a bustling scene, and yet were seated immediately by our welcoming and smiling hostess. Take that LA!

The restaurant is occupying what I grew up knowing as Peking, a Chinese restaurant that kicked around for 31 years. I remember their Peking Duck fondly. In a Grosse Point Blank moment, I was shocked to notice that it is entirely unrecognizable in any semblance of my recollection. But it does look pretty great. The walls have been stripped, leaving the original exposed brick. The wooden ceiling, once hidden by another layer of wood, is now exposed. That extra wood was converted into the restaurant’s refinished Douglas-fir tables and, after some digging, Tsui and company found and polished the floor that was used when the building was a grocery store in the 1930s. The space includes a bar that runs the length of the building, as well as spacious, cozy booths, high tables and even a private wine room that seats parties of up to 12 and has a window looking right into the kitchen.

The menu is vast. We were overwhelmed. We wanted one of everything. But we first ordered cocktails. Now y’all know I am by no means a cocktail person, but I figured I was back home and they were doing this whole she-she-la-la cocktail thing everyone’s got their panties in a bunch about everywhere, so why not? I went for the obvious choice as it was entitled, The Only Thing You Drink: Aperol Apertivo, St. Germain, Fresh Squeezed Lime, Rosemary Sprig ($9). I enjoyed it, actually. Dad ordered his standard martini and Paz ordered a glass of Albarino.

We went ahead and got some Pork rinds with gray sea salt ($4) to go with cocktail time. They were straightforward and genius. They managed to be light and airy without the greasy and heavy. The pork flavor came through absolutely and the gray sea salt only brought it forth one step further. I would appreciate a big bag of them now to snack on while I write.

Then we went a little bit crazy…

Daily Shellfish Selection $17
Local Fresh Raw Oysters (selection of Chincoteague, Upper James & Sting Rays)

With Jumbo Carolina Head On Shrimp Paired

With house made pepper relish and mignonette sauces

This was exactly what it was: fresh, local, beautiful shellfish. I never bother with relishes, mignonettes or the like when I have raw shellfish before me. Just give it to me straight up, no chaser.

Batter fried, julienne strips of Smithfield Farm pig ear, a sunny side duck egg with crispy Swiss chard ($12)

Oh my. This was decadence. This was my salt fest. Slice through that egg and let all of the textures and flavors marry and this is one hell of a dish. This dish would bowl over any of my pig ear-loving Angelinos, for sure. And most certainly Maggie.

Hudson Valley seared foie gras over black mission fig quick bread, huckleberry

and plum compote and pomegranate reduction ($15)

Foie is one of my all-time favorite things to put in my mouth. This did not disappoint. It’s exterior was ever so slightly crisped to give way to a luscious, ethereal interior. I even tried it with the compote and didn’t drop to the floor in dramatic convulsions. Even I could see that the flavor profiles were matched beautifully.

*For you Richmonders reading this: please note that “compromised” fruit is – and always has been - something of a fear of mine.

Manakintowne mixed field green salad, Hanover tomato, strawberries, white anchovies, with a pomegranate mint vinaigrette ($7)

Two things in the description of this salad had me at hello: Hanover tomatoes and white anchovies. So much so that I threw caution to the wind with the strawberry factor (see fruit disclaimer above). The salad was perfectly conceived. The only criticism I have is that the tomatoes were either not entirely in season any longer or not ripe. Eagerly anticipating my first Hanover tomato in over a year, I was, admittedly, disappointed. Fantastic dressing, however.

Fallen Oaks Farm rabbit pate “country style”, bruschetta and white truffle honey ($11)

This was an unexpected treat, brought over to us by the manager, Chris (could it have been my huge camera, perhaps?). I’m so pleased he brought this as it was a surprise hit. The white truffle honey was glorious and this dish’s smoothness and warmth added a perfect follow up to the anchovies and pomegranate vinaigrette. Thanks, Chris!

House made Ravioli stuffed with braised goat, ricotta and swiss chard with sage brown butter and shaved Pecorino Romano ($11)

This was another I-must-have-this-immediately dish I spotted on the menu. I am somewhat fixated on hand-made pasta at present, and anything with brown butter is a go. Unfortunately the ravioli was a little bit too toothsome and a lot bit too oleaginous. The brown butter was not tremendously visible aesthetically or on the tongue. The braised goat, ricotta and swiss chard insides were remarkable, however.

Braised pork cheeks over spaetzle ($15)

Hold the phone. Hold. The. Phone. This dish was RIDICULOUS. I wish we had ordered it earlier on in our gluttony as I wanted to savor each and every droplet in each and every bite. Dear Chef LaCivita, Pretty please ship me 284969 pounds of this tout suite!

We all agreed that this was our favorite of the evening.

If you can believe it, we also tried to order the Veal marrow bone with gray sea salt, bruschetta and black olive tapenade ($11) – but (thank God) they were out.

I can’t recall what Paz or Dad ordered in the wine department but I paired my meal with a glass of The Prisoner ($13) and a glass of the Petît Batard ($12) – and they were absolutely tailor-made for the meal.

Listen, the food was great. The service was great. The atmosphere, if a bit loud, was great. I totally applaud that Tsui and LaCivita are giving Richmond diners a bit more credit than they often receive.

I know my dad and Paz will be back, if they haven’t already. I plan to return upon my next visit to Richmond--VERY SOON. And Hell, I’m sitting here in Los Angeles writing about a restaurant 3,000 miles away because I think if you are able, you should go there, too.

One Year Ago: Pecan Shortbread
Two Years Ago: The Grilled Cheese Truck

Slowing Down.

2011-10-19T22:18:00.000-07:00

I have gone home to Richmond and now I have returned home to Los Angeles. I had somewhat of a seminal trip, I must say. While I always appreciate going back home, it is, more often than not, fraught with some sort of mess (usually caused by me). This visit, however, was decidedly different. It was not only mess-free, it was calm and nice (with a lite peppering of pretty great play-times), and it made me honestly miss Richmond.

Don’t get too worried. I don’t see myself leaving LA. Certainly not any time soon.

On my first night there I had plans to have dinner with my dad and Paz. We had reservations at the Blue Goat at eight o’clock. Paz came over a little after seven or so for a champagne toast before heading out. But I just could not relax. I kept looking at my watch and asking Dad if we were okay on time. We had to get to the West End, after all! He told me to chill (which he does a lot). We left at ten minutes to eight, effortlessly found parking and walked in the front door of the restaurant at two minutes to eight.

Um.

On another day I was driving through my neighborhood, The Fan, with My Favorite Rugby Boy when I noticed the car in front of me pulled over to the right and put their hazards on while someone proceeded to get out of, or into, the car. Without hesitation I checked my blind spot and whizzed around them. MFRB grabbed the OMG handle in the car and was, visibly, a bit rattled. I turned to him and said, “What’s the problem?” To which he replied, “I forgot about you Los Angeles drivers, is all.” During that moment that I rolled my eyes at him, I also realized, he’s right. There was really no reason to go around that car. Why couldn’t I have just waited one minute, until they were moving again, and amble along from there? What’s the hurry?

And you know what? I’m always in a hurry. I always have to be doing, moving, going. I’m obsessed with time and being on time. There’s never enough time.

After I realized this, I slowed it down. I meandered around the new grounds of the Virginia Museum, I leafed through a magazine, I took a nap, and I wasn’t even crabby when My Favorite Rugby Boy told me he was running late for cooking-lesson-night at his house (bless his heart – he boils chicken and eats it for dinner).

That night I taught him how to make chicken under a brick (fantastic chicken from Belmont Butchery), slow-cooked broccoli rabe, salt-baked potatoes and a roasted cauliflower and garlic soup with rye croutons. I thought the first three items would all be things he could take away and riff on: simple classics that taste delicious. In an interesting turn of events he was most taken with the soup. In an even more interesting turn of events, I walked away that evening with knowledge of a new term: SCRUM. One never does know, does one?

The next day Dad and I drove up to Northern Virginia to visit Aunt Babe. I napped the whole way there while Dad drove. We had lunch with she and her daughter, my cousin, Noel. It was truly wonderful to see them both. I got a ton of recipes and stories and material to work with. Heck, three of the dishes at the next Dinner at Eight are Aunt Babe’s. The funny thing was, Aunt Babe expressed she was pleased as punch to be out of the kitchen and didn’t miss it one bit. One never does know, does one?

I then napped the entire way back to Richmond while Dad drove.

Me, Aunt Babe & Dad, circa 1999.

For my last night back home I stayed in. In my pine cone jammies. On the couch. I was sort of sad. I realized that I really love Richmond. I realized that I really miss Richmond. I started fantasizing about moving back to Richmond. It’s so beautiful, so straightforward there. I, of course, also realized that it’s easy to feel this way about a place when you spend your days there jogging, wandering, eating, drinking wine, napping, reading and being snuggly.

But I did make a decision. Here it is: I will be going back home considerably more often. I even pulled a classic chick move on the very house in which I grew up. I left stuff that I knew I would have to return to – namely my pine cone jammies.

~~~

And for all of you and My Favorite Rugby Boy, here’s the recipe for that sexy soup.

Creamy Roasted Garlic and Cauliflower Soup with Rye Croutons

serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1 whole head cauliflower
1 large whole head garlic
1/2 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

6-8 fresh sage leaves
1 yellow onion, diced
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 tablespoon flour
1/3 cup sherry
2 cups chicken or vegetable stock, plus up to 2 more as needed for desired consistency
1 dried bay leaf
1/3 cup heavy cream

1 slice crustless rye bread, cut into 1/2-inch dice (1 cup), toasted

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Cut cauliflower into individual florets. Toss with 1 tablespoon olive oil. Transfer to a foil lined baking sheet. Scatter fresh sage leaves around the florets. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper.

Cut the top off of the head of garlic. Drizzle with olive oil and wrap with foil. Place wrapped garlic on the baking sheet. Roast the cauliflower and garlic at 400 degrees F for 15-20 minutes. When the cauliflower is tender and golden remove from the oven.

The garlic will need to roast for a total of about 25-30 minutes. You can remove it to check it's progress as needed - it should smell fragrant but not raw, be golden and tender.

Meanwhile, heat the butter in a cast iron dutch oven or medium-large stock pot. Add the onion. Saute over medium heat for about 10 minutes. Whisk in the salt, pepper, and flour and continue to cook for 2 more minutes.

Add the sherry and water, whisking to combine with the flour mixture. Then, slowly add in the 2 cups broth. Add the bay leaf and roasted garlic cloves. Bring mixture to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the cauliflower and simmer an additional 5 minutes.

Remove the bay leaf. Working in batches, add the soup to a food processor (or use the trusty immersion blender) and blend until pureed and smooth. Add additional broth during or after blending to achieve desired consistency. After all the batches have been completed, return to the pot. Stir in the cream. Cook until just heated through. Adjust salt and pepper for tastes.

Ladle into bowls, scatter the croutons on top and serve.

Printable Recipe

One year ago: Cream Biscuits
Two years ago: Pizzeria Bianco

The New to the Old. The Old from the New.

2011-10-05T14:31:00.000-07:00

I’m going back home for a short stretch. About a week. Interestingly home has been quite the trending topic lately – in my home. My home here in LA that is. This is my home now. But Virginia, is also, and will always be my home. My home where I was born and raised. I’m excited. I’m also excited that I’m excited.

I haven’t been able to return to Virginia much since I started my own business back in 2004. No more Christmases or other holidays, for sure. It seems like the reasons that have lured me back there in the past five years have been mostly not so great things. I can hardly remember I went back just to go. Hence my excitement.

The extra bonus of going right around now is FALL. Fall is, without a doubt, my favoritest season of all. Always has been – even when it represented back-to-school (and I never liked school). While my City of Angels does have whispers and hints of the different seasons, we don’t really get a proper Fall or Winter. Winter I don’t care a whole lot about. Y’all can keep it. But Fall, oh the love.

One of the things I’m extra super thrilled about regarding this visit is that I have scheduled a whole day to hang out with Aunt Babe. I haven’t seen her since her 90^th birthday, which was back in 2007. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always been especially taken with Aunt Babe. I write about her A LOT. But, really, I haven’t spent worlds of time with her throughout my life. I don’t know if I know her, really.

But what I do know is that I admire her composure, her calm. I admire her fortitude – she has been the rock of our family, and single, since her husband passed away over 50 years ago and her sister, my Grandmother, Janie, passed away the year before I was born. I admire her sense of family. I admire the fact that she’s, like, 95 years old and doesn’t wear glasses.

I also admire her cooking. One of the things I most looked forward to all of my life, until I was simply unable to attend, was Christmas Eve dinner, in Roanoke, at Aunt Babe’s place. It was, and is, literally my favorite meal of my life. Hands down.

Aunt Babe in the kitchen, with her sassy Christmas duds.

I’m sure it wasn’t just the food. I’m sure it has way more to do with the evening being so traditional, so normal, so warm and so consistent. But I swear I can still taste everything that was served at that meal each year. I’m kind of obsessed with that meal.

Well and so. In case you haven’t heard I’m bringing back Dinner at Eight. Again.

It all started about a month ago. I attended a bloggy Tweet Up or some such thing, and ran into Let Me Eat Cake. I’ve always gotten a super great vibe from this girl. We started talking about Southern food: how it’s seemingly on the rise like never before, how every other issue of every other food or wine magazine is The Southern Issue, how delicious and special it is, and how there is an obvious dearth of it in our City of Angels. That day we made a loose pact to make it happen here.

What better way to start that then to A) get my tail back home to visit Aunt Babe and get all those wonderful recipes from her and, B) share with and feed all of you, my dear Angelinos, this remarkable cuisine, that, while may be a trend, is also a rediscovery of something that was always there. And, hopefully, now here.

The next Dinner at Eight will be A Southern Sunday Supper. The date is October 23, 2011. We will have two seatings with eight diners each. Dinner will be served inside, by the fire. To see the menu, more details and to make reservations, click here.

~~~

Shortly after I posted the menu for the next dinner party, Aunt Babe’s daughter, Noel (my cousin and my middle name) sent me this email:

Hi Elliott,

Connie just sent us a link to your Dinner at Eight and we were tickled to see that two of Aunt Babe's dishes are included.

What spoonbread recipe do you use? The best (and easiest) I ever tasted was one from Mom's first cousin Flonnie Kinnear. It's just like the one from the old S&W Cafeteria in Roanoke and other southern cities. You're way too young to have been there.

Also, we just finished up the last two pieces of a buttermilk pie -- also from Flonnie, I think.

Love, Noel

~~~

So, I’m proud to say, here is Cousin Flonnie Kinnear’s recipe for spoon bread (and the one we will be serving at the dinner party). I’m printing it as is (even with the Pam!) with the exception of adding Anson Mills as a referral for the cornmeal as their product is unsurpassed.

Cousin Flonnie's Spoon Bread

Serves 4

1 cup buttermilk

1 cup sweet milk

2 eggs

⅓ cup Anson Mills cornmeal

½ tsp soda

½ tsp salt

1 Tb butter, melted

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Pam a casserole.

Combine all ingredients. Mix for one minute. Pour into casserole (or cast iron). Bake for 20 minutes.

Printable Recipe

One Year Ago: Spaghetti & Meatballs

Two Years Ago: Roasted Cauliflower Soup with Saffron & Asiago Cheese Crisps

8 Slices in 1 Pie.

2011-09-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

Have you ever considered all of the numbers that navigate our lives? We have phone numbers, social security numbers, bank account numbers, credit card numbers, addresses, pin numbers, ages, heights, weights, calories, Scrabble scores, miles, zip codes, GPAs, test scores, membership numbers, latitudes, longitudes, bar codes, SKU numbers, lottery numbers, lucky numbers, numbers of friends or followers on Facebook and Twitter, income, tax brackets, TV and radio stations, hours, minutes, seconds, prices, sex partners, the list goes on and on. There are also countless numbers involved in cooking, like tablespoons, ounces, cups, temperatures, cooking times, portions and the like. Thinking about this compelled me to try to put all of my numbers together and see what they look like. It's a pretty amazing thing to see in front of you. It also really takes you through some interesting channels of your past. I was brought back to old addresses and phone numbers I hadn't thought about in a long time. Hell, I was shocked that I could even recall them in the first place.

Last Sunday, Mom, Maggie and I attended the A Slice of Pie event at LACMA. As you may recall, I was not able to be a part of the competition because I missed the submission deadline by 36 hours. So I figured I’d go to support Maggie’s apron business and rock my own Maggie Mae Apron for the apron walk-off. It was fun. It was really hot. It was also really crowded. I heard over 400 folks were in attendance. Maggie’s aprons were a huge hit. My ever-spirited mom went ahead and brought the buttermilk pie we had intended to submit to the contest (by the way, I looked through the hundreds of pies submitted, and not one buttermilk pie). I’ll be damned if Mom didn’t actually have her own Salon de Refusés after all! She stood in the shade and handed out small slices to the hungry folks standing in line to try the submitted pies. The very last slice, however, she gave to Evan Kleiman, host of KCRW's (89.9 FM) Good Food and the grand dame of the event. Plus, I heard Evan loves buttermilk pie. Thanks Mom!

After the event I went home to my kitchen and thought about all of those hundreds of people and all of those hundreds of pies. I decided to bake one more pie.

I was recently invited to attend a chocolate tasting in Beverly Hills for Green and Black’s products. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth but their peanut and sea salt bar really won me over. They sent me home with a sweet gift bag and all the chocolate I could wrap my chocolate-y hands around.

I knew what to do.

My Green & Black's gift bag.

It was just me, one person, making just one pie. And while I baked, I noted all of the numbers involved in the process, from preheating the oven to measuring out the ingredients in cups, ounces, teaspoons, the cooking time, and even getting the 9" pie crust measured out correctly.

One person. One slice of pie. So many numbers.

Chocolate Sea-Salt Pie

Serves 8

Ingredients:

Pastry for 9" single pie crust (recipe below)

1/2 cup butter

3.5 ounces Green & Black's milk chocolate with peanuts and sea salt

3 ounces Green & Black's 70% dark chocolate

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup dark brown sugar, packed

2 eggs beaten well

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions:

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Line pie pan with crust.

Melt the butter over medium-high heat. Remove from heat and add chocolate. Stir quickly to melt chocolate in warm butter and to combine well.

In a medium bowl, combine flour and sugars; stir with a fork or whisk to mix well. Add eggs, vanilla and chocolate mixture. Stir to mix everything together evenly and then pour filling into pie crust.

Place pie on the bottom oven rack and bake 30 to 40 minutes.

Let cool to room temperature.

My mom's awesome pie crust

Makes 2 pie crusts

2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon salt

8 tablespoons (1 stick) sweet butter, chilled

6 tablespoons lard, chilled

5-6 tablespoons ice water, as needed

Sift flour, sugar and salt into a mixing bowl. Add chilled butter and lard. Working quickly and using your fingertips, rub or cut fat into dry ingredients until the mixture resembles course meal.

Sprinkle on ice water, 2-3 tablespoons at a time, and toss with a fork. Turn dough out onto your work surface and, using the heel of your hand, smear dough away from you, about 1/4 cup at a time. Scrape it up into a ball and wrap in wax paper. Chill in refrigerator for 2 hours.

Roll dough out to 1/4-inch thickness on a floured work surface. Line a 9-inch pie plate with half of the dough. Crimp edges for a single-crust pie.

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As You Wish.

2011-09-17T22:26:00.000-07:00

Last week I sent a Tweet into the Twittersphere asking folks to send me their favorite southern dishes. Shockingly, no one mentioned Tomato Aspic. Perhaps everyone already had their go to recipe for that one. I heard fried chicken and gravy, grits, Brunswick stew (recipe coming soon), biscuits and meatloaf, to name a few. But Maggie rmentioned green bean casserole. This instantly aroused my interest.

As I’ve mentioned previously, much to my chagrin, I didn’t really get to eat that kind of food growing up. I actually don’t recall a single casserole going on at the home base(s). Aunt Babe did a green bean dish at Christmas Eve dinner, but it was more like Shelly beans, bacon fat and pinto beans all cooked down in a broth. And very good as far as I remember. I’ll get that recipe from her when I go home next month.

But you see, casseroles were just the kind of thing I wanted to have for dinner. I was totally the wowzers-I-get-to-have-Stove-Top-Stuffing-twice-in-one-night kind-of-kid. But we never had Stove Top Stuffing. I’m not even sure I’ve had green bean casserole before. I know Brandon brought it to Thanksgiving last year, but I’m not certain I tried it. There was so, so, so much food that day, and I was in the kitchen so, so, so much that day.

So I did a little research:

Green bean casserole was first created in 1955 by the Campbell Soup Company. Dorcas Reilly (I'm a little freaked out about a woman (or man) named Dorcas)) led the team that created the recipe while working as a staff member in the home economics department at Campbell.The inspiration for the dish was "to create a quick and easy recipe around two things most Americans always had on hand in the 1950s: green beans and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup."

Fun fact: In 2002, Reilly presented the original recipe card to the National Inventors Hall of Fame in Akron, Ohio.

Dorcas, serving up her Hall of Famed Casserole to some lucky tyke.

Okay. So I began to pour through my cookbook collection. I have quite a few cookbooks (almost one hundred!), and quite a few vintage-y, weird-y ones with recipes that would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up - involving bologna, maraschino cherries and cheese balls (together), but not a lot of green bean casserole. And so I figured I best go to the source: Campbell’s website.

The recipe looked a little scary. But I decided to keep it classic with a scant few of my own tweaks, here and there.

This, I realized, meant I had to go to a grocery store. Like, a real one. The kind that sells Campbell’s soups and those crispety-crunchety fried onion things. It had been awhile since I had been anywhere but farmers’ markets, Trader Joe’s, or small boutique stores. It was so fun!

So, there was no way I was going to use anything but fresh beans. Period. Though I thought it would be super cool to make my own creamy mushroom soup, I figured, if Campbell came up with the damned recipe, I better go ahead and use their product. I did, however, add some tarragon, a splash of sherry, and some sautéed red onion to the mix. I can’t help it.

Since I don’t really have a springboard on which to, um, spring, I have no clue if my green bean casserole is up to snuff, as it were. I like it, I do. It’s funny, though – it’s exactly what I wished was part of dinner at my house in 1987, but I realized – not necessarily what I want as part of dinner in my house in 2011. I’m guessing this is because I have no attachment, no visceral memory of it prior. Cube steak falls into this category as well.

Maggie should be home soon to indulge in her casserole, of which she has a very strong visceral memory. I hope it takes her back to her youth, her family and her kitchen table in Virginia.

I’ll keep you posted…

Green Bean Casserole

Serves 6

2 cups fresh, trimmed green beans

1 smallish red onion, coarsely chopped

1 can (10 3/4 ounces) Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 teaspoon soy sauce

½ teaspoon chopped tarragon

A splash of sherry.

½ teaspoon sea salt

½ teaspoon ground black pepper

1 1/3 cups French fried onions

Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350°F. Fill a large bowl with ice water. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add 2 tablespoons salt and beans. Cook beans until bright green and crisp-tender, about 6 minutes. Drain beans in colander and plunge immediately into ice water to stop cooking. Spread beans on paper towel-lined baking sheet to drain.

Sauté red onion in butter until tender, about 10 minutes.

Stir the soup, milk, soy sauce, tarragon, salt, black pepper, sherry, red onion, green beans and 2/3 cup French fried onions in a 1 1/2-quart casserole.

Bake at 350°F. for 25 minutes or until the bean mixture is hot and bubbling. Stir the bean mixture. Sprinkle with the remaining onions.

Bake for 5 minutes or until the onions are golden brown.

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Yellow

2011-09-14T23:36:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret I’ve been on a Southern kick of late. Well, I guess, why would it be a secret? I don’t know, something has happened to me recently. I even got myself a subscription to Southern Living. It’s all I can think about, all I want to write about and absolutely all I want to cook right now: Food of the South.

Typically I don’t have much of a sweet tooth – never really have. But I have been hearing so much about A Slice of Pie on KCRW lately that my wheels started spinning. The event sounds so fun: it’s at LACMA this Sunday, September 18 - it’s free and if you wear an apron you get free general admission to the museum, there will be mountains of pies to taste and an apron fashion show. The pies are submitted by both home cooks and professional chefs. The judges are a cross section of chefs and food writers. What’s not to like?

So I called my mom, the baker in the family. I don’t know why but I knew I wanted to make a buttermilk pie. Now I actually do not have a childhood memory of buttermilk pie. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I had ever even had it before until this past year. Baby Blues BBQ has it on their menu and one day Maggie insisted I try it. I fell in love.

I did a little research and discovered buttermilk pie is indeed a traditional Southern delicacy. It’s basically a chess pie.

Buttermilk is thick, slightly paler than eggnog, and yes, it's tart. There is no butter in buttermilk: It's actually low-fat or non-fat milk that has been fermented by various bacteria, in a process similar to the way yogurt is made.

But it's good for so many things. It makes a gorgeous batter for frying chicken, makes homemade biscuits, rolls and cornbread tender, mashed potatoes just faintly tangy, and of course, pancakes light and fluffy.

On my first try I did surprisingly all right. I drove to Mom’s to pick up the dough for the crust she made for me (with lard!) and put it in the fridge for two hours while I got to work. But when I say work, I mean no work. This is seriously the easiest thing to make ever. I wanted it to be on the less-sweet side so I added an egg and a little extra buttermilk. The flavor was very nice except I found it to be way too eggy. Doug agreed but Mom thought it was really good.

This past Sunday, on the second go ‘round, Mom came over to dive into it herself. She made her perfect crust and got to it. We decided to use one less egg, less sugar and about the same amount of buttermilk I had used previously.

I thought it was perfect. Frighteningly so. This non-sweet-toother could have eaten that pie like a bag of salty-crunchies. Everyone I shared it with, which was about six people, absolutely loved it. Whitney, a native of Kentucky and a big buttermilk pie fan, did say she would have liked the top to be a bit bruléed. Fair enough.

Sadly, Mom and I misunderstood the information I was sent about the event and, as a result, missed the entry deadline by a mere thirty-six hours. So our, what I’m sure would have been, award-winning pie will not be in the pie-stravaganza this Sunday. Mom, so confident, even suggested we have our own Salon des Refusés. We, of course, won’t actually do that. We’ll find the platform for our pie. Hell, there’s whisperings of an all Southern-themed Dinner at Eight coming up in October. Perhaps we’ve found our dessert.

I hope to see y’all this Sunday!

Buttermilk Pie

The pie should be firm with a top boldly golden, the crust a little brown. If the pie is removed from the oven prematurely, the dessert looks like pudding spilling from a crust.

3 eggs
1 cup sugar (or a hair less)
2 tablespoons flour, plus a little for dusting
1/2 cup melted butter
1 1/4 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell (see below)
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Beat eggs slightly and add sugar and flour. Then add melted butter and mix well. Add buttermilk and vanilla and mix.

Dust the unbaked pie shell with a little bit of flour. Pour batter into shell, and then sprinkle a little more flour on top.

Bake at 325 degrees until the custard is set, approximately 1 hour.

My mom's awesome pie crust

Makes 2 pie crusts

2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon salt

8 tablespoons (1 stick) sweet butter, chilled

6 tablespoons lard, chilled

5-6 tablespoons ice water, as needed

Sift flour, sugar and salt into a mixing bowl. Add chilled butter and lard. Working quickly and using your fingertips, rub or cut fat into dry ingredients until the mixture resembles course meal.

Roll dough out to 1/4-inch thickness on a floured work surface. Line a 9-inch pie plate with half of the dough. Crimp edges for a single-crust pie.

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Back to the Basics. Holding on. Letting go.

2011-09-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

Over a girls' night out with Maggie last week I lamented the recent loss of a t-shirt that had significant sentimental value to me (and was super cool). A boy I once cared for deeply had sort of permanently loaned it to me and I, of course, kept it forever, until I just lost it a short time ago. I suppose it is one of the only things I had left of him, besides my memories. That whole thing was years ago, now.

Maggie just blinked at me and flatly told me to forget about it. She said I keep too much stuff. I don’t need all of the stuff. It doesn’t necessarily need to have the gravity I have assigned to it.

It’s a shirt.

Admittedly, that smarted a bit. But she’s right. As tidy as I am and as often as I clean out my closet of clothes, shoes and accessories that I don’t want, or no longer fit, I have a ton of stuff. In addition to that signature t-shirt left behind from most of the boys that have meant something to me. I have a Steeler’s glass that was Sam’s. I’ve carried it with me for a decade. When it was broken last year so was I. I have cards Paz made for me from twenty years ago, a matchbook with a joke written in it from Michael Fancini from fifteen years ago, I have kept every journal I’ve ever written, have busted up furniture from my grandparents, and even have a hat pin, all bent and rusty, that was found in a jewelry box my dad gave to my mom long before I was born. Let’s not even mention the decrepit strainer, shaped like a triangle, with rust, from my dad’s house from way before my time, that sits on a chest in my dining room, never used, yet has no real, actual, sentimental value to me that I’m aware of. But I love it.

What you own eventually owns you, right?

I’ve never actually shed all of my stuff before. And as a result, perhaps I find myself trapped in the past a bit. “I used to do this with that person”, “I used to do that this way and this that way back in the day.” You know?

We can’t completely shed everything really. Actually, even if we get rid of it, we still have all of our stuff anyway, tangible or not. Everything is part of the mosaic that makes all of us who we were, are and will be.

These thoughts coupled with this time of year have harkened me back to thoughts of my family, my roots, my parents, the James River, youth, spirit, innocence, thunderstorms, cicadas, Yo! MTV Raps, Ca-Ca the Clown, The Magic Pumpkin, lighting bugs at dusk, Dinosaur Jr., my back deck; Richmond and Grove Ave. Where I became me.

Those of you that read me on the regular probably know all of this about me already. This is what I do periodically (maybe this is my new stuff).

But man alive, I also miss that food.

Where is it here, dear City of Angels? Where can I find brilliant (and unabashedly Crisco’ed) fried chicken, meatloaf, roast beef, fried catfish, chicken pot pie, chicken livers, collard greens, green beans, fried green tomatoes, pimiento cheese, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes (with mountains upon mountains of butter), corn on the cob, parker house rolls, tomato aspic, corn bread and sweet tea under the same roof? With a twist. In the right place. And wine, too, please. WHERE?

Because I want it. And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Sometimes tried and true, and sometimes with a twist. In the right place.

I’ve mentioned this previously - but I’m redundant and you all know it – the South actually created the only cuisine that is indigenous to this country. Yes, it’s true. Look it up.

So last week Doug, Maggie and I had a Southern feast: fried chicken (cooked with Crisco AND butter, mind you), buttermilk biscuits, slow cooked collards, and sliced heirloom tomatoes with a dollop of Duke’s Mayonnaise, sun tea and, of course, wine. For dessert we had buttermilk pie (recipe coming soon).

I want more. I’m going home in October. I want my emotional Snuggie. I want to talk to Aunt Babe. I’m going to ask her everything about everything. And I’m going to talk about her food. And I’m going to hug her.

And then I’m coming back here to you, my City of Angels. And I’m going to make you some food.

Shirt? What shirt? I’ve got cooking to do.

Classic Southern Fried Chicken

Serves 6

2 small chickens, broken down
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons seasoned salt, such as Lawry's
1 tablespoon fresh cracked black pepper
24 ounces Crisco

1 stick of unsalted butter

Pat the chicken pieces dry and line a baking sheet with wax paper. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the milk. Add the chicken. In another bowl, whisk the flour with the seasoned salt and seasoned pepper. Dredge the chicken in the seasoned flour.

Dunk chicken back in buttermilk mixture and back into flour mixture.

Transfer to the baking sheet.

In a 12-inch, cast-iron skillet, heat the Crisco and butter to 365°. Add all of the chicken and fry over moderate heat, turning occasionally, until deeply golden brown and an instant-read thermometer inserted nearest the bone registers 170°, 20 to 24 minutes. Drain the chicken on paper towels and serve right away.

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Finally Fooding Around in LA with LQ@SK.

2011-08-25T16:42:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday night Chris and I had the distinct pleasure of experiencing that which is LQ@SK. In case you’re not yet familiar, here are the bare bones:

Nguyen and Thi Tran are the delicious duo behind Starry Kitchen which is mainly a lunch spot, and offers up dinner Thursdays and Friday evenings.

Sadly, Laurent Quenioux's Bistro LQ recently closed up shop. Since then, the Chef has continued his role at Vertical Wine Bistro, where he became Executive Chef late last year.

The three put their heads together and realized it would be a great idea to have Quenioux come in to Starry Kitchen and do dinners Sunday through Tuesday, when the restaurant is not usually open, every other week. Said dinners are five-courses (plus amuse) prix fixe menu, priced at a very reasonable $45.

This began the first week of this past June and is slated to last anywhere from three to six months.

Voila.

Why it took me this long to get myself in there is a mystery to me. And don’t even get Nguyen started on the pathetic fact that I have yet to experience Starry Kitchen during their regular hours. Trust me, I feel like a heel about it. Alls I can say is that it is very difficult for me to get downtown during lunch hours. I have no excuse about Thursday and Friday nights, however.

I swung through Domaine LA as Jill does the pairings. As she does so very. I wasn’t planning on drinking a whole ton and knew I had to make the drive back to my canyon from downtown, so I just picked up two half bottles; a 2010 Domaine Daulny Sancerre and a 2008 Foradori Teroldego Rotaliano. As a little thank you presley for a cappuccino delivery the week before, she also gave me a bottle of NV Musva Muscat for dessert.

And then I picked up Chris and we were on our way.

I was delighted to spy, the always affable, Julian at the pass, expediting, and Nguyen, sporting a faux stache, skipping about doing all manner of duties and dropping all manner of F-Bombs. We were seated immediately and given a small platter of bread and olive oil (bread from Bread Lounge) and had our Sancerre opened. The bread was moderately good, but really begged for a finer, brinier, sassier olive oil or a nice butter to go with it.

As I took that first sip of wine and took in the bright, friendly and warm surroundings, our amuse bouche appeared. This was Scallop Tartar, Vanilla, Salsify, Clementine. It was clean, precise, delicate and subtly flavored. I ate my scallop tartar entirely and then moved to the Clementine and salsify. I appreciated the division of the elements. Chris, however, incorporated all of the tastes into his bites and was confused by the Clementine. He found it overwhelmed the scallop. Potato-PotAHto...

Next up we had Uni Tapioca Pudding – Carlsbad Oyster, Cauliflower, Yuzu Gelee. Uni is one of my most favorite things in all the land, so I was overjoyed that I was given a big, ole slab of it here. It was divine; sexy, musty, briny and unctuous. The oyster was a bit confusing. A bit busy. But I am admittedly an oyster purist. I thought this dish was seductive and lush and went exquisitely with the Sancerre.

On to the Skatewing, Sujok, Sumac, Cucumber Yogurt Garnish. I honestly had no idea what to expect here, and what appeared before me still had me surprised. Pleasantly, I might add. It had wisps of flavors reminiscent of Armenian and Indian cuisine, but still managed to be floaty and elaborate. I thought it was a creative and intrepid dish.

At this point we open the bottle of Foradori and the most intriguingly titled dish of the evening: The Declination of Peas: Pea Guacamole, Pea Gazpacho, Pea Bacon Ragu, Sauteed Foie Gras. I think our chef was having some fun with this one, in particular. He took his peas around the world. His peas were on celestial latitude, from France to Spain to Mexico. Terribly clever.

The guacamole was fascinating. It had only peas, yet tasted almost exactly as though it were prepared traditionally, with avocado. It was light, bright and fresh. I wished I had a couple more crispety-crunchedies to dip into it. The gazpacho was playful and lustrous. But the ragu and the foie gras was the show stealer. It was like a rustic, peasant bourguignon – but with that Tiffany’s gem of foie gras on top. I wanted a barrel of it. And Jill’s choice of red, that Foradori, could not have been a better choice. It was, simply put, perfect.

After a moment to catch our breaths from the excitement from the last dish, we were presented with the Veal Cheeks, Bergamot Jus, Prickly Pear, Chanterelles, Fava Beans. This was, perhaps, the most visually stunning dish – and also Chris’ favorite of the night. I loved everything about this dish from concept to execution, but the prickly pear threw me a bit. The only reason for this is my slight aversion to gelatinous, fruity elements in my savory dishes. This is my thing. My issue. But I tell you what, I still cleaned my plate.

Timing-wise, things were perfect. We just finished up our wine as we finished up the veal cheeks. Time for dessert and Jill’s dessert wine, the Muscat (Yes, sweet. Yes, bubbly. Yes, delicious! This one is from Spain, courtesy of importer, Jose Pastor. And at under $15 a delicious bargain.) I figured, since the bubbles were a gift, I would share with the crew.

And so after a toast to the evening, Chris and I, with enormous smiles on our faces, dived into the Tonka Bean “Bread Pudding”, Shortbread Cookie, Red Currant, Rose Water Lychee Sorbet. While I’m not much of a dessert gal, this little morsel of bread pudding transcended coziness and the cool sorbet was supple and beautifully balanced. Not to mention his plating could have inspired a Miro painting.

What a great evening and an even greater meal. I’ve always thought Quenioux has had mad skills in the kitchen. I was consistently impressed at Bistro LQ. To enjoy his food and his formidable attention to detail, to taste the fun he was having in the Starry Kitchen kitchen, with Nguyen, proudly and, shall we say, enthusiastically explaining all of the dishes, Chris and I absolutely enjoyed every part of our evening. And all for $45?!

Chris called me the next day to thank me for turning him on to this pop-up. He also told me he had already made a reservation for the next round. He wanted to take an out of town friend who is quite the food enthusiast and is rumored to have an impressive palate.

I will try to get myself back as well. But not before I make it my beezwax to go to Starry Kitchen proper. I promise.

Winds of Change

2011-08-17T21:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve never considered myself much of a spiritual person. I was brought up with zero knowledge of any sort of religion or religious history. Apparently, one day, when I was very young I returned home from pre-school and exclaimed to my mother, “Who’s this little girl, Baby Jeeza havin’ a birthday?” Turns out it was Christmas time and the other kids were referring to Jesus' birth. I just thought one of my classmates was having a birthday party and I wasn’t invited. My mom says she was mortified. She promptly proceeded to outline Religion 101--no great detail, just basic historical information. Easter was only just explained to me at length a couple of years ago thanks to Brandon. Boy, was I off about that one.

Over time I became hugely interested in my peers’ various religions and practices. I loved going to the Friend’s Meeting House (Quaker) with Kelly Wolf and her parents. Everyone sat in a little steeple and meditated for set periods of time – the kids had fifteen minutes while the grown-ups had an hour. During this time anyone that felt compelled to stand up and say – or sing – something was more than welcome to do so. I vividly remember someone standing up from the silence and belting out Morning Has Broken by Cat Stevens. Me – I counted the stripes on the people’s shirts in front of me. After our fifteen minutes us kids were allowed to go play and do arts and crafts and stuff (Macrame! Macaroni art! Things that start with MAC!).

I also enjoyed attending midnight mass with my Uncle Pat and his family in Roanoke, Va each Christmas Eve at their Southern Baptist church (interestingly, the same church where my parents were wed). Mostly I loved that we got to hold candles (I’m a bit of a pyro) and sing Christmas carols (I really like to sing).

Then, when I was eight years old, my mom married Michael Lasky. Michael was (and, I imagine, still is) Jewish. This was my most favorite of all. I loved the process. I loved the ceremony. I loved the sense of inclusion. I loved Seders, the Yarmulke, the Menorah, the language. Michael’s mom was not too pleased about Michael’s choice in wife. Hell, her oldest son married a divorced-with-young-kid-shiksa. I guess she was mostly indifferent toward me, though. I think I used to wear a Yarmulke at the table, which, for obvious reasons, was looked upon with various levels of disdain and confusion. I went to Hebrew school, became a member of the Jewish Community Center and went to a Jewish Summer Camp, Camp Hilbert. Incidentally, I attended quite a few Summer camps in my time, that way, was by far, my mitzvah. Especially compared to Camp Hanover. Don’t even get me started on Camp Hanover. Those bitches in the Hogan next to me made up a secret language so they could talk smack about me. A language I deconstructed very quickly, which was convenient so I could spend the entire two weeks understanding what the mean girls were saying about me.

Mom and Micheal moved to Colorado with me and our car, Chet, in tow and then Mom and I, with our car, Chet, in tow, moved back to Richmond, sans Michael, eight months later. It had nothing to do with religion. Far from it. Their relationship had just run its course, I suppose. I was only eight. I didn’t really understand or care. I was just really happy to get back to my dad, my hometown, my friends, and a school system that had a Summer break (not that three months on, three months off crap). Plus, E.T. came out while I was living in Colorado. My name is Elliott. I was in the third grade. Need I say more? I only hoped the buzz of the movie had died down by the time I returned to Virginia.

It had not.

I’m pretty sure that was the last of my religious vision quests for a while. There were drum circles and “sweat lodges” happening a lot in college (#drugs). I even took a “Religions of the World” class there. It was in a shoebox-sized room with only six students. Only moments into the first class, the dude sitting next to me, Jerry Bello, the stinkiest, hippiest boy on campus, (who if his B.O. wasn’t alarming enough (and I like B.O.)) proceeded to pluck a beard hair and floss his teeth with it. I walked out of the class and marched right to the Dean’s office to promptly drop said class. Never to return.

And that about wraps things up for the next decade - certainly through the Atlanta years and into The LA ones.

A couple of years after I moved here, however, my friend Heather introduced me to this thing called yoga. Maybe you’ve heard of it?

If there’s anything I lack more of than religious education it would be the drive to exercise. In college I took juggling and “Independent Rollerskating” for PE credit to avoid any team sports or actual sweat, in general. I have tried various gym memberships over the past fifteen years, but nothing lasts longer than about a month. This has all fine and dandy until I noticed that, since moving into my thirties, my always-the-same-size-since-high-school body has, well, changed. It’s not a huge deal. I still fit into most of my clothes. Just differently.

And so I realized I have to get proactive. Obviously I enjoy food a great deal. I am willing to make certain sacrifices, certain tweaks, here and there, but let’s face it – I’m not going to fast or become vegan or macrobiotic. Same deal with the wine. I can certainly scale it back, but it’s still going to be around. That leaves one option: exercise.

So. Back to Heather and yoga almost a decade ago. When Heather first suggested we go to a Kundalini yoga class, I scoffed. I mean, exercise and chanting and meditating, with a pile of strangers? Honestly, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.

But I went. And I fell in love with it.

I never became very regular with it. I still only lasted for brief fits and became distracted by something else. But something about this Kundalini stuff… It touches me. Spiritually. I am always very affected by the classes – both during and afterward. And it’s great exercise to boot.

Needless to say, I have returned to yoga. I just started going back this week so we shall see how long I last. But right now I feel energetic, alert, centered, happy and sore as hell. Even laughing hurts.

This past weekend my mom gave me a pork butt from, the most awesome Lindy Grundy, that was too big for her to cook in her kitchen. I had never prepared anything pork butt-ish as far as I knew, but the first word that popped into my mind was braise (and braising really is very zen, you know).

And, this past Sunday, braise I did. Heather came over and while the butt braised and braised, we settled in on the couch for a marathon of Criminal Minds. As we drew near the end of braise-o-rama, I pulled out the meat to rest while I made the pan sauce. I then was supposed to pull the meat apart with two forks.

What? I had imagined serving thick slices with the pan sauce over the meat.

This was when Heather gingerly pointed out that, not only did I not take note of the image of what the finished dish was supposed to look like, but I did not read the recipe in its entirety – or really look at the title of the dish: Beer Braised BBQ Pork Butt (actually she was far from “gingerly” about it – there may have been laughing and pointing).

So I accidentally made my first BBQ pulled pork. A lot of it. And it’s really good!

It’s true, I know I should always read a recipe all the way through before embarking on it – but, for some reason, I rarely do. I suppose this is because I feel so confident riffing in the kitchen. But Heather had a point. And it seems a prevalent point right now. While I’m all spiritual and stuff.

Be patient. Be thorough. Be calm. Be confident. Take your time and try do things correctly – even if you mess up a little. You will get it just right soon enough.

Beer Braised BBQ Pork Butt

Makes like 276485 pulled pork sandwiches

For the dry rub:

2 tablespoons salt

About 45 grinds black pepper

2 tablespoons chili powder

1 tablespoon garlic powder

2 teaspoons ground coriander
2 teaspoons mustard seed
12 ounces good ale or dark beer

5 cloves garlic, chopped
1 5-pound pork butt (shoulder of the animal)

Directions:

Combine rub ingredients in a bowl and mix well. Rub all over pork butt. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least one hour and as long as overnight.

Preheat oven to 500 degrees F. Unwrap pork and place in a roasting pan with sides about 2 inches high. Cook 45 minutes until dark browned and even blackening in places. Remove from oven.

Lower oven to 325 degrees F. Pour beer over the top and add chopped garlic around the pork. Cover tightly with heavy duty aluminum foil or twice with regular foil. Poke about 10 holes all over the top of the foil. Cook pork butt 3 hours longer until so tender that it comes away very easily from center bone.

Place the meat on a plate and pour the pan juice (there will be plenty) into a saucepan. To the pan juices add:

1/2 cup ketchup

2 tablespoons whole grain Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons Worchestershire sauce

1/3 cup dark brown sugar

1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar

Bring to a simmer until reduced by half and thick, about 20 minutes.

While the sauce is boiling down, pull apart the pork with 2 forks. Pour the sauce over the pulled pork and work through until fully absorbed.

Make sandwiches!

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Back In the Saddle Again.

2011-08-12T13:41:00.000-07:00

I’m happy to report that I am back in my usual form here at F for Food. I finally finished all that was fit to print regarding Yerp and I’m back in my kitchen and back in my fair city’s restaurants. Back to causing trouble on the home front. Back to being lost and found and lost again. Back to trying to find my answers in all things culinary.

Work got extremely busy from May until a few weeks ago but things appear to have hit a calm. I haven’t really been out on the town, so to speak, but I also have not been cooking. There was a week in which Maggie and I did a cleanse together (ugh). But other than that week I cannot tell you why the kitchen has only an onion, three pieces of bread, half a bag of frozen edamame from Trader Joes and a bunch of too-ripe bananas.

I really hate to see food go bad. At some point a ways back I noticed a stray container of ricotta in the fridge approaching its expiration. Rather than toss it I zipped out to the store to buy all things to make a lasagna bolognese so that I could incorporate the ricotta into a recipe. So rather than throw away a couple of dollars worth of food, I created an errand to go spend exponentially more than a couple of dollars on more food to make a recipe that took the better part of a day.

The lasagna turned out beautifully, though.

So the other day that bunch of too-ripe bananas had me bemused. I won’t even consider eating a fruit even a moment past ripe, and these guys were a little beyond that. But I really wanted to avoid tossing out a whole bunch of bananas. I couldn’t figure out a way to integrate them into a savory dish. Well, not one that I could even think about wanting. I bandied about the idea of peeling them, chopping them into chunks and freezing them for future smoothies, but I had done that a few times already and I felt like being more kitchen-y than that.

So I called my mom as I rifled through some of my less modern cookbooks. I was going to have to bake.

I decided on a bread. That seemed less daunting than any other fruit-related baking project as it can fall onto the more savory side of the fence. Mom was giving me advice as I landed on the recipe I was going to base my bread from in my 1969 edition of the eponymous New York Times Cookbook by Craig Claiborne. The recipe was simple and confident as are many in this particular tome.

I think my mom actually gave me this cookbook right before or after college. I tell you what - it has certainly seen its fair share of kitchen action in its forty-two years of cookbookery. It's banged up, falling apart and peppered with - well, probably pepper - and all manner of crusty food stuffs. It's been rode hard.

I poked around the cupboards to see if I could make use of anything else to jazz up the recipe and give it my own flare. I unearthed bourbon-soaked vanilla beans and candied walnuts. Done deal.

The recipe was fairly simple to execute and turned out beautifully. Maggie and Doug thought it was great. Eating a generous slice, warm and slathered with butter, even my mom said she was impressed.

And unlike the lasagna, I didn’t have to leave the house or spend an extra penny. Maybe I’m getting better at this.

Bourbon-Vanilla Bean Banana Bread with Candied Walnuts

1 Loaf

1 ¾ cups sifted flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

1/3 cup shortening

2/3 cup sugar

2 eggs, well beaten

1 cup mashed ripe bananas (2-3 bananas)

1 bourbon-vanilla bean, split lengthwise and seeds scraped

1/2 cup coarsely broken candied walnuts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

Cream the shortening, add the sugar gradually and continue working until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and beat well. Add the flour mixture alternately with the bananas, a small amount at a time, beating after each addition until smooth.

Fold in vanilla bean scrapings and walnuts.

Turn into a well-greased bread pan (8 ½ X 4 ½ X 3 inches) and bake about one hour and ten minutes.

Printable Recipe

Yerp: Part 7 - The End.

2011-08-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

Now that I have spent the better part of this Summer writing about two weeks I spent in Europe in May, I think it’s time to close the chapter and move on to bigger and better – or just different – things.

The trip was spectacular. The trip was indulgent. Chris, Emma and I reconvene, periodically, to reminisce. A couple of non-food/drink related vacation gems include but are not limited to:

The search for the world’s largest mortadella.

Three years prior, Chris and I wandered into a restaurant one afternoon in Barcelona. We wanted some oysters and cava and this looked like a good spot. We had been sitting there for about fifteen or so minutes before I excused myself to use the restroom. Upon my return I found Chris in a fit of hysterical laughter, beet red, and unable to form words through his tears of elation. He finally mustered up the syllables to instruct me to take a good look around the room. It took about ten seconds for my eyeballs to settle on the source of his mania. I promptly burst out into my own hysterical fit and may have fallen out of my chair.

I don’t know how we could have missed it. Right by the front door, resting on top of its very own easel, with a jaunty green bow tie around it, was the world’s largest mortadella. It took quite a while for us to regain our composure. Hell, It's a good thing I had just relieved myself... We still take enormous joy in recounting that afternoon. Cava? Oysters? I don’t recall if they even happened. Everything else around us evaporated after the realization of the massive log of meat before us.

We were hell bent on finding that restaurant this go ‘round. At one point I sensed it. Then Chris took off running. Emma and I chased after him in exhilaration. We found the spot, but that restaurant no longer occupied the space. The mortadella was nowhere to be seen.

Thank goodness I was able to get this picture three years ago…

The stakeout of Dirty White Dreadlock Boy.

On that first trip Chris and I also found a café that we were both quite fond of. There is a photo of me in that café, sitting in front of a wall of bottles of wine that exists on my Facebook page, I think. We found ourselves there again on this recent visit, and sat in the same spot to have a latte. While there I wanted to recreate the photo from three years earlier.

Something the three of us had noticed in Barcelona, that seemed to be some horrific new trend, was dirty white boy dreads. Now listen, I went to Antioch college and I’m not a pantywaist about such things, but that was college! And that was like 1993! Grunge, remember?

So while we were enjoying our coffee and becoming irritated with my vanity regarding getting that darn picture just right, Chris spotted him. The dirtiest white boy with the kookiest white boy dreads. His hair was cut short on top with his tremendously long dreads only in the back. Kind of like a dirty white boy dread mullet. It was astounding.

But we only got a glimpse as he ducked into the little market across the street. We were so excited to get another peek that both Emma and I set up our cameras while Chris was our eagle eye. We were now on a stakeout.

It seemed like forever. I mean, what in the world could he have been doing in that place for so long? A dozen other people went in and came out before him. We thought maybe he was onto us and ducked out the back door. But then, suddenly, there he was, in all his dirty white boy dreaded glory. Our shutters were flashing away.

We were very happy.

The return to the tiny, little bar with the coolest staff, ever.

On our trip a few years back we did a lot of museums. Chris loves museums and is considerably knowledgeable of all things historic. Museums are not as much my thing. So after a few days of museum-ing, I decided to let Chris have a go at the architectural museum solo while I ducked into a dark, little bar to have a glass of wine and do some writing. By the time Chris came back to get me I was speaking Spanish like a pro and had befriended the staff and customers alike. I had also gotten a lot of important writing done.

Well, we stumbled onto that very same bar almost by accident on this journey. And as if on cue, Chris announced he wanted to go re-visit the architecture museum as Emma & I decided to duck into the bar for a glass of wine. It was exactly the same. It was empty, save for a couple of people - clearly regulars who lived close by - the place was empty. The guys working there were fun, friendly and playful. Our bartender posed for pictures with us, danced around, and even carried on with a glass of beer on his head.

I can't wait to return.

Well and so...

For our last evening we met back up with Dad and Dale. Remember them? They were staying at a hotel by the water and were very likely really enjoying their respite from us kids. We all enjoyed a glass of cava on the roof of their hotel as the sun went down before heading out to find some dinner. They seem rested. We were exhausted. We walked around for a while until we settled on a little tapas spot with outdoor seating in a bustling courtyard with street performers and the like. We had cava. We had ham. We shared and compared our respective Barcelona stories with each other. We were already wistful.

Here's our album cover. If we had an album. Or a band, for that matter.

It was a truly wonderful adventure and a memorable vacation. The three of us rode to the airport together. Emma and I, on separate flights, returned to our City of Angels and Chris went on to Madrid for a friend's wedding. And more ham.

But, as always, no matter how incredible a time I have away, I am always excited to return home. Home to my Los Angeles, my little house in my canyon, Maggie, and my sweet puppies.

Yerp: Part 6. Barthelona (Part 2), THE HAMOVER.

2011-07-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

May 19

That was a lot of ham yesterday. There was a lot of everything yesterday. We were not deterred, however. Actually, I think we were. We were supposed to meet up with Sal and the gang for lunch, but we didn’t get up and moving until pretty close to lunch time anyway, and we desperately needed to be free of time constraints and meeting up with people for just one meal. And both Chris and I really had our hearts set on one meal in particular.

Three years ago, on that original vacation with Chris, he took me to La Boqueria. La Boqueria is a huge, covered, market and an impressive landmark with an entrance from La Rambla. The smells, colors, sounds and activity easily throw one’s senses into overdrive, not to mention the wild and crazy items sold in the market. It is truly a small village inside of a big city.

La Boqueria also offers up a few counters serving food. One in particular, my favorite and the focus of this post, is El Quim. Prior to that first visit Chris had excitedly described their, perhaps most lauded dish, baby squid and fried eggs. That day he ordered that and I ordered the sardinas a la plancha. That meal has stayed in my memory since. Such fresh ingredients, such delicately nuanced flavors and textures. A couple of glasses of cava. Delicious perfection.

And this brings us to about Noon on that Thursday, with Emma and Chris. Yes, we may have, in our er, exaltation the night before, told our new posse of friends that we would meet them the next day for lunch. But in the light of day, come Hell or high water (or being lame to our new friends), we knew we were headed straight for El Quim.

And there, in the middle of the bustling Boqueria stood the stall we sought. All eighteen of its stools occupied and a crowd of people waiting two-deep to scurry into any newly freed spots. Somehow, silently, we had a plan: Emma stalked one side of the stall and Chris the other. I was the liaison between the two to be able facilitate getting all three of us to the opening of seat(s) as quickly as possible. This all took great concentration.

Emma's view from her side:

Quim in the foreground and Chris, stalking stools, in the background.

Chris scored. I grabbed Emma and we raced over to his side. He got us two stools with the promise of a third opening up any minute as the person occupying it was paying their bill. Emma and Chris sat while I opted to hover until stool number three opened up. We immediately ordered the white anchovies, garlic, caper berries and green olives in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, some bread and a few glasses of cava.

I was over the moon. I was literally clapping when the first bite was in my mouth. The anchovies were fresh, meaty, firm and elegant in their simple marinade. With a few bites of that dish and a few bites of the bread swabbed around in the oily goodness I took my newly vacated stool and stole a moment to soak up my surroundings.

Mouth full. Clapping...

El Quim is cluttered and chaotic. The counter crowds with dishes – frittatas, paellas, and fresh seafood. Sausages, dried chiles, produce, garlic and pots and pans hang from the eves. Orbited by a swirling mass of entropy, the tiny kitchen gets along amazingly well. The menu is chalked up above the stove, although paper menus are available as well. You’ll find yourself seated next to travelers from all over the world, locals, foodies and chefs alike. Quim is always behind the counter and is also always surprisingly friendly in the midst of the frenzy. He also manages to squeeze his three or four chefs/co-workers back in that little nook of a kitchen as well. Size-wise, think food truck. Cut in half. I don’t know how they do it.

Second glass of cava and time to order the big stuff. First off, El Quim is most famous for his fried eggs. Period. He puts them either over or under pretty much everything on the menu. As mentioned above, Chris orders one thing and one thing only: the fried eggs smothered under a mosaic of tender, baby squid sautéed in a pan sauce of oil and a touch of chile heat. This dish is also Quim’s calling card. It is ubiquitous with the restaurant’s name. When the eggs are cut up and the yolk runs into the squid the dish becomes complete, thickening and marrying all textures and flavors that hop, skip and jump across one’s tongue.

Emma, in the spirit of not having tangential dishes at the “table”, opted for the fried eggs with jamon iberico (Iberian ham). This ham is from free-range pigs that roam oak forests and eat only acorns. This ham is also called Jamón Iberico de Montanera. The ham is cured 36 months. Bellota jamones are prized both for their smooth texture and rich savory taste. You really just can’t go wrong with this dish.

I went in an odd direction. I ordered the Catalan sausage over white beans with aioli. This was a simple and savory answer to my fairly prominent hangover. The presentation left room for some humor for obvious reasons, but don’t be fooled – it was rich and robust with clean succinct flavors. The slightly crisped skin of the sausage gave way to a tender, succulent, meaty inside. The beans underneath provided the perfect texture to round out the variations in the sausage.

We also got and order of asparagus wrapped in bacon. For our vegetable quotient. Hey, what can I say? It’s asparagus wrapped in bacon!

As we were saddling up to head out to our second lunch to meet Chris’ friends Quim gave us a little dessert on the house. I was a little scared of it as it looked as though it fell into the gelatinous-gooey-fruit department. Emma assured me it would be alright for me as it fell into the coconut department. That is usually okay. I still don’t know what it was but I ate it.

It’s understandable why chefs flock to eat here. The quality of the ingredients is unparalleled – everything is fresh from the market. Quim’s execution is simple and solid. And the flavors are confident and honest and all cooked to order. Straightforward and comforting, this is the type of food that you love to eat and want to crave.

And this was just our first meal of the day.

We then went on to meet up with the boys at a restaurant called Joséphine, but we were so late that they were basically out of everything. So we migrated to a rooftop restaurant and bar called La Isabela. There we camped out for hours, drinking and eating more ham. The photograph at the top of this post was taken at this spot. It had a terrific view.

We then moved on to the home of Paul, where we had some more wine and snacks and lost Emma and Engel for a little too long for my comfort. But they appeared eventually. Wearing pirate hats and swords. And carrying the largest lollipop anyone has ever seen. Then we ended up, briefly, at a small café. I mostly threw a tennis ball for Paul’s dogs during this stretch.

This is what showed up at Paul's a million years late with Emma, who was dressed similarly.

And then Engel, Chris, Emma and I ended up at a restaurant, apparently heralded for their – wait for it – ham, Recasens. I wish I could share more about this part of the evening but we were not only dead on our feet tired. But we were drunk on ham and libations. Poor Chris was the worst off. His eyes were closing while we were standing outside waiting for our table and the only thing he could put together to utter was, “No more ham. Please?”

We waited about thirty minutes outside for a table to open up. It was about 1:00am. They did bring us a small wicker basket of ham to keep us at bay while we waited. We finally got our table. The place was tiny and adorable. Turns out they specialize in ham! So we had three or four plates of different kinds of hams and some cheese.

A basket of ham while you wait. For more ham. Ham dangling from my mouth.

Chris was green.

Our trifecta somehow made it back to our apartment building. Wearing the pirate hats. When we arrived at the door of the building we ran into two Canadian women who were staying across the hall from us. We started chatting. Well, Emma and I started chatting. Chris made a bee-line into the building and up to our apartment to face plant on his bed. Emma and I ended up hanging out with the Canadians, drinking wine and laughing until almost dawn. But not before Emma broke a glass filled with red wine in their apartment and said something mildly offensive about Canadians.

Me and the Canadians. I don't know, so don't ask.

I do believe this was the first night of the trip that Emma, Chris and I did NOT cap off the evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while lounging in our apartment, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last ~~days~~ (who's even counting, now?) week plus, the whirlwind, of our adventure. At least, if we did, I don’t remember it.

Yerp: Part 5. Barthelona! (Part 1).

2011-07-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

May 18

Emma, Chris and I rode with my Dad and Dale from Armissan to Barcelona, via Figueres, to visit the Dali Museum. It was a long ride. Much longer than the ride from Barcelona to France that first night. Dad and Dale seemed confused about directions, tolls, gas, etc., and we three in the back seat were no help. Chris was playing with Emma’s iPad, playing parts of songs and learning the ins and outs of Angry Birds, Emma just didn't want to be in the car, and I had a pretty yucky hangover. And I think we all just wanted to BE in Barcelona at that point. It was time to disband The Group.

And so, after a harrowing exploit driving through the city to the airport to return the rental car, disband we did. Emma, Chris and I got a cab and were off to our apartment situated near the Gothic Quarter.

And here’s where country mouse turned into city mouse…

Wowzers. Our apartment was so cool! Bright, modern and very comfortable. The kitchen had features of which I have never seen. Chris and I literally had a dance party in the window upon moments of arriving (I was doing The Robot and Chris, The Funky Chicken). But not before we all uncorked a bottle of Cava and had a toast, of course. The kids' at the kids table were let loose to wreak havoc in the yard…

Photos courtesy of Emma.

At after freshening up we three headed out into the big city to explore our surroundings and look for food and drink. As I mentioned previously, we were a droplet away from the Gothic Quarter and decided to just get out and wander around there, certain we’d find just what we were looking for.

We found ourselves in a dark, little hole in the wall joint that was empty save for a table of Nordic-looking men in the front. We ordered a bottle of Cava and a selection of tapas: a plate of manchego, a plate of toast and tomatoes, and what was to be our first of many, plates of ham. We found the place so charming that we decided not to make a scene about the Orson Welles-sized cockroach that ascended the exposed brick wall behind my head.

Next up we moved along to an area called El Born. Tres chic. This was, perhaps, my favorite nook of the city we experienced, albeit briefly. We were to meet up with an old friend of Chris’, Sal – and a bunch of his friends – for dinner. At 10:00pm. We were early, so we had a glass of wine at the cutest cafe aptly called El Born. We soon all found each other and then found our way to a bright, little spot in Eixample with tapas, tapas, tapas. It was served like dim sum, or more like a cocktail party - with a server walking around with trays of bites of meat on bread and whatnot with toothpicks in them. We were to keep our toothpicks throughout the meal so that they could be tallied up at the end and we’d be charged accordingly. Interesting, right?

Well, we were there all of ten minutes before I started spouting off about food, my blog, etc., and faster than you can say Gaudî, Sal's friend, Paul herded us into the street, into cabs, and into a restaurant named La Flauta.

There were about eight of us, I think. The place was crowded, with a line. But Paul seemingly snapped his fingers and had us all seated immediately. If I saw a menu, I don’t remember. I vaguely recall discussing with Paul the type of wine I was craving. I was already fuzzy and think I said something rather crass to describe what I wanted. But he got it. Then the food started to pour out.

There were mayonnaisey salads served with toasts, a platter of little filets with sautéed spinach served with toasts, huge grilled shrimp on skewers with tomatoes, and you guessed it: a ginormous platter of ham. The coup de grace was a big plate of thin French fries, topped with two sunny-side up eggs. The server sliced and diced the eggs into the fries tableside. It doesn’t sound like much but those huevos fritos are etched into my mind to this day. They were stupendous. Lastly, we had some thing served up as a dessert that had jelly on top of it. I tried to take a bite with the jelly scraped off. I didn’t want to be rude as it seemed my opinion and appreciation of everything mattered. But it really freaked me out. I ended my meal with a glass of something called Quarenta Y Tres on ice. I loved it. It was aromatic and slightly bitter, but also reminded me of Lillet. This brings us to about 12:30am.

Gosh. What happened next? I’m not sure. I know that myself and Engel, who was a Dutch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, were doing the Lambada down the city's streets while he roared “Cowabanga!” into the night. I know the next picture I took, of Chris in our cool, Dario Argento-esque elevator in our building was taken at 2:20am.

And I know Emma, Chris and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while lounging in our apartment, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last ~~days~~ (who's even counting, now?) week plus, the whirlwind, of our adventure.

*Pardon the quality of the photos. Unless specified, they were taken with my iPhone. I was nervous lugging my big-ass camera around on the first night and had no idea what culinary excitement we were getting into...

The Storm Trooper vs. Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie

2011-07-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

Alright. Let’s take a brief vacation from my vacation to check in on what’s happening in my kitchen. Honestly, since returning from Europe I have hardly been in the kitchen at all. So I decided to change all that this week. Since this past Sunday I have cooked almost every meal I have consumed (except for Uncle Dougertons' birthday dinner at Lukshon last night (amazing!)).

I’m not sure exactly what has kept me from the kitchen. I have been decidedly distracted. A lot has been going on since my return. I guess shifts in work things and car stuff mostly. Actually, almost all of it has been car stuff.

I’ve known my busted-ass Jeep, the Storm Trooper, was at the end of its days for some time. It’s been falling apart piece by piece, day by day. It had become almost comical. I would even drive around for thirty minutes, looking for street parking, to avoid the disgusted expressions of the valets at restaurants.

And then, about a month and a half ago, on my way up the hill headed home, it happened. The Storm Trooper basically caught on fire. With my hands white knuckled, gripping the steering wheel, and my teeth grinding down to nubs, I just made it home. I parked it on the street, rather than my driveway, as I knew that was its last voyage. I might as well get it positioned to be towed away, forever.

R.I.P. Storm Trooper. You were very good to me.

I rented a car while I shopped for what was to become, my new, sweet ride. It didn’t take long. I knew what I wanted, for the most part. In fact it was the first car I looked at in person. It seemed perfect. I bought it. Straight up. Cash money.

Meet my guide, Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie.

The first thing I did as I drove away from the girl that sold it to me was put Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie on the dashboard. Maggie brought her back from Hawaii months ago and I had been waiting, excitedly, to put her in her permanent spot – at the helm of my new car. The second thing that I noticed as I drove away was the thermometer all the way up to the H. I panicked and pulled over immediately.

Note she also sold me the car with 1/4 tank of gas.

I’m not going to bore you with the details of all that has occurred in this department of the new car over the past month and a half, but it has been a nightmare. Even the boys at the dealership can’t figure it out. Hell, no one can figure it out.

For now, it seems fine, but I am nervous driving my new car. I have some animosity towards my new car. At least Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie makes me happy.

And so, since this all came on the heels of an expensive vacation and this has been tremendously expensive as well, I have retreated to the kitchen. I made an incredible sweet corn and chorizo chowder garnished with a crumble of goat cheese and a fried cilantro leaf (let me know if you want the recipe), and grilled swordfish steaks topped with a lima-bean-and-herb butter. But the most exciting thing, surprisingly, was a chicken dish. Michael Motorcycle not only cleaned his plate (making him closer to the Mayorship of The Clean Plate Club), but told me it maybe was the best dish I had prepared for him to date. I don’t think Maggie ate any, but her boyfriend housed a portion and was impressed. Most importantly, I loved it. And it was astonishingly easy! The chicken was served alongside a watermelon, feta, heirloom tomato, red onion, dandelion greens salad and blanched white asparagus with a drizzle of truffle oil and champagne vinegar, topped with celery leaves. Maggie did go bananas for the asparagus, actually.

Sweet Corn and Chorizo Chowder

I think it has been smart to return to the kitchen. I feel more in control of my time and money. I will re-address the new car stuff next week. It pretty much seems stable if I don’t turn on the air conditioning. Or go up steep hills. Which is fun as I reside in sunny Southern California, it's July. And I live on a big hill.

Chicken Breasts with Anchovy-Basil Pan Sauce

Serves 4

4 bone-in, skin-on chicken breast halves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 red onion, thinly sliced
4 large anchovy fillets, minced
1/4 teaspoon chopped chile de arbol
1/4 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup slivered basil
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon cold unsalted butter

Preheat the oven to 400°. Season the chicken breasts with salt and black pepper. In a large ovenproof skillet, heat the olive oil. Add the chicken breasts, skin side down, and cook over moderately high heat until they are richly browned, about 3-5 minutes. Turn the chicken breasts and transfer the skillet to the oven. Roast for about 20 minutes, until just cooked through. Transfer the chicken to warmed plates.

Set the skillet over moderately high heat and add the red onion; cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Stir in the minced anchovies and chile de arbol. Add the white wine and boil for 1 minute, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Add 1/3 cup of water and boil until the liquid is reduced to 3 tablespoons, about 1 minute. Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the basil and lemon juice. Swirl in the butter and season the pan sauce with salt and pepper.

Pour the anchovy-basil pan sauce over the roasted chicken breasts, spooning the red onion all around, and serve right away.

Yerp: Part 4 - Les Sentiers Gourmands.

2011-07-09T15:29:00.000-07:00

May 15, 2011

This morning I awoke, as I had every morning thus far, at the crack of dawn, way earlier than the others in the Little House. I was excited. The Group had to meet at 10am at Abbaye des Monges on the edge of the Massif de la Clape to begin our day experiencing that which is Les Sentiers Gourmands.

The Jump-Off. (Photo courtesy of Emma)

This was the eighth year for the 5 kilometer wine walk and, from what I heard, the most physically demanding. Upon congregating at the starting point we were all given a pouch to hold our wine glass, which hung around our neck and rested in our, um, cleavage, wooden cutlery, a book of the tastings and finally a straw hat.


Me & Dad rocking our wine walking kits. Note wine glass in pouch. (Photo courtesy of Emma)

And we were on our way. On our way to eat and drink our way through beautiful, scenic vineyards, and up a big, steep, rocky mountain. The hike was punctuated with six stops of food (menu proposed by Marc Schwall Cooks Cellars in Narbonne), and over 40 AOC Languedoc-La Clape wines presented by the winemakers or wine cooperatives.

I believe at our first stop where we were given the Artichoke gazpacho with fennel and olive oil, and about 4 or 5 different wines to taste, Emma turned to me and exclaimed, “I don’t know how anyone could actually get drunk doing this.” I giggled silently to myself, and thought, “Oh, Emma…”

The gazpacho was divine, cool in temperature, yet warm in body and texture. I wanted more. But we were given our 6 tickets, one for each taste, and I certainly didn’t want to miss out on any of the others. I will be trying to make an artichoke gazpacho on my own very soon.

The stretch between the first and second stop was downright grueling. Straight. Up. Hill. With lotsa rocks everywhere. So upon reaching the summit (first one there!), the little man selling his little jars of rosemary honey was a welcome sight indeed. So I bought a jar of honey to bring home to Maggie.

The next taste was the eggplant marmalade and Collioure anchovies, pepper coulis and Espelette. And a lot of different rosés. All of the different wineries served their tastes atop wooden wine barrels, which was pretty cool.

(Photo courtesy of Dale)

And on we walked, the lot of us. We walked, at times, in various groups, with a partner or a trio, or alone. There was a lot of time and a lot of wine and a lot of walking. It was, quite possibly the most beautiful, inspiring, and romantic thing I have ever experienced.

(Photo courtesy of Dale)

The next stand offered us St. Jacques scallops in hot cold crayfish cake (that's the best translation I could come up with).

The stretch from scallop stop to our next stop was right about the time when Emma and I were laughing about her comment upon embarking on this adventure. Hell, we were all laughing about everything at this point. I guess we were getting a little tipsy. Not just because of the wine. It was just all so potent. Everything about it.

(Photo courtesy of Dale)

This brings us to probably my dad's favorite, the parmentier of duck confit, eggplant and mushrooms, dried, juice and tomato stew (again, best translation I could muster). This dish was both a delicacy for the eyes and mouth. Beautiful, big reds were paired at this stop.

(Photo courtesy of Dale)

I can honestly say that, after this stop, which was the most filling in both food and wine, I was in the clouds a bit. I walked the next stretch alone for the most part. Happily.

And then I met up with everyone again at the next stand; a selection of goat cheeses by Mas Combebelle.

The cheeses were ripe, supple, briny and lovely. They were the perfect thing to slice through the big, palate lingering flavors and textures from the duck confit stop.

And then, as if it all lasted but a moment, we found ourselves at what appeared to be a little outdoor festival. There was a band, children dancing, dozens and dozens of people that had already finished the walk, more flooding in at each moment. This was our final stop. This was where we were served the “Success” with caramelized apples and raisins, caramel rosemary and coffee (or more wine). I sorta wished I had doubled up my tickets way back at the artichoke gazpacho stop as this dish was very much not my cup of tea (cooked fruit issues).

But it mattered not. I was absolutely sated.

So, I sat with the members of The Group that had arrived, sipped another glass of wine, stepped on - and ruined - my favorite sunglasses, and waited for the remaining members of The Group.

Before we left I picked up an apron for Doug and we all bought a selection of the favorite wines we had tasted throughout the day.

That evening we all went across the street from our houses to Joelle and his wife Maria's house for a beautiful meal and more wine. It was, perhaps, one of the most decadent and splendorous of days I have spent in memory, and one that would be near impossible to recreate.

Well and so, Emma and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while laying in our beds, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last ~~thirty-six~~ ~~seventy-two~~ (who's even counting, now?) week, the whirlwind, of our adventure.

Chris, pouring one out for our homie, France. (Photo courtesy of Emma)

This concludes the France part of Yerp. Up next, Barcelona!

Sentiers Gourmands:

Price per person € 48, price group over 12 persons € 45, € 10 child less than 10 years.

Narbonne Tourist Office, 31 rue Jean Jaures, 11100 Narbonne.

Tel 04 68 65 15 60 Tel 04 68 65 15 60

Yerp: Part 3 – Cooking Dinner for More Than a Dozen People.

2011-06-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

May 14, 2011

Alright. Second morning waking up in Yerp. At the crack of dawn. Before everyone else. Again.

My head hurt, though. No idea why.

This is the night on which I have committed to prepare dinner for The Group. Part my thank you and part me being a show off. I hate me.

So we were off to the Les Halles Market in Narbonne to select my booty. I adore this market. It’s also France’s oldest indoor food market opening its doors in 1901. #funfact

Fun things from the market.

I hadn’t really thoroughly conceived of what I wanted to prepare. Or how. So I was a little frantic at the market. Oh, and I don’t speak a lick of French - except vas-y mollo, which is not tremendously helpful while figuring out how to buy enough fava beans to create a puree that feeds twelve plus, folks. Or really helpful at all, for that matter.

Emma helped some until she spotted The Group having wine and tapas at one of the stands. Then Dad jumped in to help me figure out my meat purchase. Which involved math. In French. I was STRESSING. But we ended up finding a gorgeous pork loin roast.

Stressing at the market (photo courtesy of Dale).

And then I joined The Group for a bite and a glass of wine before heading back to Armissan to prep.

The menu that I settled on went like this:

Champagne, olives and charcuterie

Salad of Greens from the Garden (with Jean-Jacques awesome dressing and which Dale assembled)
Roast Pork Loin Stuffed with Spinach, Fresh Herbs and Garlic with Pan Sauce Reduction and Fava Bean Puree
Potato and Artichoke Hash
Sauteed Chanterelles in Olive Oil and Sea Salt

Cheese Plate

Thumb Wrestling

Dad, sassing back about "the fava bean situation".

I put Dad and Emma on fava bean duty: a chore I doubt either of them will ever embark on again voluntarily. I don’t think Dad was wild about dealing with the artichokes either. But I gotta give the guy props - he actually helped me in every arena of this meal, including the keeping-me-calm arena. You see, I had never cooked a formal meal for this many people before. This past Thanksgiving, yes. Hell, I made enough food for greater Los Angeles that day. But I was cooking for days and it all came out staggered. Food just continued to pour out of the kitchen all day and night. It was buffet style.


Cocktail hour (top photo courtesy of Dale)

Salad (photo courtesy of Emma)

Pork

Cheese

With the exception of the artichokes still having a few of the sinewy leaves here and there in the hash, I think the meal was a hit. I was proud of it.

I hope The Group liked it.

Thumb Wrestling (top photo courtesy of Emma)

I believe Emma and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while laying in our beds, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last ~~twenty-four~~ thirty-six hours, the whirlwind, of our adventure.

Notice a pattern?

The artichoke-potato hash that I prepared was inspired by Suzanne Goin’s (imagine that). I have the recipe for you here:

Artichoke-Potato Hash

Serves a mere 6...

12 baby artichokes
1 1/2 pounds red potatoes
extra-virgin olive oil
4 cloves of garlic, unpeeled
1 bay leaf
4 sprigs of thyme
2/3 cup sliced shallots
2 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Juice of 1/2 of a lemon
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

To make the hash, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Toss the potatoes with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, the garlic cloves, thyme sprigs, bay leaf, and 1 teaspoon of salt.

While the potatoes are roasting, prepare the artichokes. Cut off the top third of the artichokes and remove the tough outer leaves. Using a vegetable peeler, trim the bottom of the stem and the stalks. Cut each artichoke in half and using a small spoon, remove the fuzzy choke if there one. As you work, immerse the artichokes in a large bowl of cold water and the juice of 1 or 2 lemons, so they do not discolor. Be sure to drain and dry them well before cooking.

Heat a large saute pan (we used two), over high heat for 2 minutes. Add 1/4 cup of oil to the pan and then wait for 1 minute. Add the artichokes and season with 1 teaspoon of thyme, 1 teaspoon of salt, and a grinding of pepper. Turn the heat to medium and saute for about 10 minutes tossing often, until the artichokes are golden brown.

Remove the artichokes from the heat and after they've cooled a little, cut them into large chunks. Once the potatoes have cooled, cut them into large chunks and squeeze the roasted garlic from their skins and set aside.

Wipe out the pan the artichokes were sauteed in and return it to the stove and heat it over high heat for 2 minutes. Swirl in 1/4 cup of oil and wait a minute. Add the potatoes to the pan and season with 1 teaspoon of salt and freshly ground pepper. To get the potatoes nicely browned and crisp on the outside, do not overcrowd them in the pan. We used two pans. Don't be temped to stir the potatoes too much, that will prevent them from getting the good brown crust. It should take 6 to 8 minutes to get a good crust on one side. Stir the potatoes and continue to cook until they are browned all over.

Once the potatoes are golden brown on all sides, turn the heat down to medium and add the shallots, artichokes, and roasted garlic. Toss well and sautée the hash together for 5 to 6 minutes until the artichokes are hot and the shallots are translucent.

Toss in the chopped parsley and squeeze a bit of lemon just before serving.

Yerp: Part 2 - An Evening in Gruissan.

2011-06-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

My first morning in Armissan.

May 13, 2011

I had this vision of the France leg of the vacation. I saw a lot of nothing. I saw myself reading, writing, eating, cooking, staring into space and sipping wine – all in a lovely, pastoral milieu. I envisioned a lot of silence. Save for the birds chirping and the rooster crowing.

There was no reading or writing. At all. There was little to no silence. There was, however, a great deal of eating and sipping wine. There was a great deal of the wine. All in a lovely, pastoral milieu.

The little house.

The first time I was there, three years ago, Chris, Jean-Jacques and I dined at a restaurant called La Cranquette, in Gruissan. It was my favorite, and most memorable, meal of that trip (and we even went to Vieux Puit in Fontjoncouse). It was a tiny, charming, casual, spot in a tiny, charming town on the Mediterranean. All of the food is cooked in a kitchen the size of my thumbnail, and everything is cooked on a griddle. Even my seared ahi tuna over a slab of foie gras. Yes, you read correctly.

So, for our second night in France, all fourteen (14) of us occupied the expanse of outside tables at La Cranquette (had we sat inside (my preference) we would have filled the entire space)). The place hadn’t changed a bit, which warmed my heart. Our waitress, Nadeen, was sweet and was able to keep us sufficiently herded, so to speak. And, although she spoke with a perfect regional French accent, she was from New York. This made things easier as well. That's her above, holding plates and whatnot.

Dinner was excellent. With such a large group I imagine we ordered everything on the menu. But I ordered pretty much exactly what I had ordered there three years ago. I started with tellines, which are little wedge clams sautéed in a little foie gras. And then I had the duck breast served under a generous slab of foie gras (yes, I did) with a reduction and some Pyrenees honey. Holy little baby Jesus.

Decadence.

Jean-Jacques (who ordered a dish aptly, and cleverly, titled "Mars Attack" (see picture below)) took over in the wine department by selecting all local, regional (and delicious) bottles for the table.

What a truly beautiful meal. I highly recommend this restaurant.

For a full set of pictures of the evening click here.

I believe Emma and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while laying in our beds, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last ~~few~~ twenty-four hours, the whirlwind, of our adventure.

Which had, really, only just begun...

Armissan