Serious Eats

The Joys of Unnaturally Flavored Sodas

2009-07-10T00:00:00Z

Fess up, serious eaters, do you have a favorite?

I think it was a few weeks ago, when I ran into Tom Colicchio, that I found myself confessing my love for Fresca. I had seen an interview Colicchio had done in the New York Times Magazine in which he declared his love of Fresca: "Always in fridge: Fresca. It is just a great drink. No calories; tastes like citrus."

During our discussion we both acknowledged that what we loved about Fresca was its taste, even though neither of us could identify its ingredients. Hey, Colicchio is, after all, Mr. Ingredients, Mr. Craft, so it says quite a bit about Fresca if he can't tell us what's in it.

So now I know that at least two serious eaters, me and Tom Colicchio, think Fresca is pretty swell. It's more than pretty swell. It's seriously delicious, in fact.

Here is the ingredients list straight from a bottle:

Carbonated water
Citric acid
Concentrated grapefruit juice
Potassium citrate
Potassium Benzoate and EDTA (to protect taste)
Aspartame
Acesulfame potassium
Acacia
Natural flavors
Glycerol
Ester of wood rosin
Brominated vegetable oil
Carob bean gum

Sounds a little scary, I guess, but I'm no chemist. (And, yes, there's concentrated grapefruit juice, but not enough to add any calories.)

All I know is that it's delicious, refreshing, and more than a little citrusy, sort of.

So give it up, serious eaters. What less-than-all-natural soda can't you live without? (No colas allowed.)

City Flavor Guide: Grand Rapids

2009-07-09T23:00:00Z

Photograph from powerbooktrance on Flickr

Editor's note: Grand Rapids is the home of the Koeze Company, who, as far as I'm concerned, make the best peanut butter in America. They also make terrific cream nut clusters, fresh roasted nuts, and lots of other good stuff, so I figured who better to tell serious eaters where to eat in Grand Rapids than Jeff Koeze himself. Jeff would never say this himself (he's far too modest) but Koeze's two locations are a must for serious eaters in Grand Rapids. Beyond that, here are Jeff's recommendations. —EL

Breakfast

The wheelhouse for Grand Rapids food is breakfast. My favorite is a vegetarian place called Gaia Cafe. I like it not just because their food is really good, but also because it gets me away from eggs and bacon. It has a great breakfast burrito called the MexBrex with eggs cheese, beans, and fresh salsa. When I am looking for bacon and eggs and other everyday breakfast fare, the Garden Room Cafe, Real Food Cafe, and The Brandywine are all terrific.

Gaia Cafe: 209 Diamond Ave SE, Grand Rapids MI 49506 (map); 616-454-6233. Garden Room Cafe: 2055 28th St SE, Grand Rapids MI 49508 (map); 616-452-8544. Real Food Cafe: 5430 Northland Dr NE, Grand Rapids MI 49525 (map); 616-361-1808; 2419 Eastern Ave SE, Grand Rapids MI 49507 (map); 616-241-4080. The Brandywine: 2844 E Beltline Ave NE, Grand Rapids MI 49525 (map); 616-363-1723; 1345 Lake Dr SE, Grand Rapids MI 49506 (map); 616-774-8641.

Foodie and Locavore Central

The most interesting place for foodies and locavores in town is Restaurant Bloom, created by three grads of Grand Rapids Community College's excellent culinary arts program. These guys are really creative, and given the overall quality of the food and the ingredients they use, it's really reasonably priced. Must haves: this amazing dish with seared whitefish and savoy cabbage and ham dumplings in a caraway broth.

Restaurant Bloom: 40 Monroe Center St NW, Grand Rapids MI 49503 (map); 616-632-2233.

Hamburgers

We have a terrific local hamburger dive: Choo-Choo Grill. The burgers are made from fresh ground chuck and they're pressed down on an old grill so they get the nice crunch everyone loves to have on their burger. Plus, your burger arrives via an electric train. How much fun is that?

Choo-Choo Grill: 1209 Plainfield Ave NE, Grand Rapids MI 49505 (map); 616-774-8652.

Hot Dogs

We also have a really cool local hot dog joint, Yesterdog. It's been around for over thirty years with good reason. The hot dogs are excellent, especially the traditional hot dog. A word to the wise, though: Ordering at Yesterdog is not for the inexperienced. Everyone has to learn the rules. No exceptions.

Yesterdog: 1505 Wealthy St SE, Grand Rapids MI 49506 (map); 616-336-0746.

Mexican Food

Mexican food is where we're really starting to get it going. We've got a bunch of traditional Mexican places, all targeted at the growing Mexican and Latino communities. My favorite is Lindo Mexico—they have an amazing marinated pork filling that is absolutely fabulous. Two others I like are Tacos El Caporal and Tacos El Ranchero. These three are all within a mile of so of our business, so I am confident that there are other gems to be unearthed in this vein if only I were willing to go further for lunch. There are tons of these places, and I've only scratched the surface.

Lindo Mexico: 2747 Clyde Park Ave SW, Wyoming MI 49509 (map); 616-261-2280. Tacos El Caporal: 1024 Burton St SW, Wyoming MI 49509 (map); 616-246-6180. Tacos El Ranchero: 1240 Burton St SW, Wyoming MI 49509 (map); 616-245-6514.

Special Occasions

For a special occasion, a big birthday, or an anniversary, the 1913 Room at the Amway Grand Plaza is a AAA five diamond joint, and the meals I've eaten with my wife there have been really good. For steak, I like The Chop House. The shrimp cocktail is excellent, the steaks are thick and juicy, and the baked potatoes come fully loaded with sour cream, butter, and chives.

1913 Room: 187 Monroe Ave NW, Grand Rapids MI 49503 (map); 616-776-6426. The Chop House: 190 Monroe Ave NW, Grand Rapids MI 49503 (map); 616-451-6131.

French in a Flash: Sliced Steak with Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade

2009-07-09T22:00:00Z

From Recipes

The Missing Ingredient

Sometimes, at the end of the day, when you look at a recipe, you realize, too late and too tired, that you don’t have all of the ingredients. And that delightful pesto pasta you were planning will just have to go without pine nuts. It will look like pesto pasta, but you’ll know, even if no one else does, that there’s something missing.

It’s the same with life.

You try to balance it out, follow the recommended doses of sweet pleasure and brittle work, to serve to yourself, in the end, the perfect plate, the life you expected, to savor and to enjoy. But sometimes, as with dinner, you have to forgo one of the ingredients. I have found, over the last couple of years, that my recipe for life may have contained one part too many European haute cuisine expatriate existence, and many parts too few of the friends and family that are to my heart what Maman’s pot au feu is to my stomach.

I met Lauren when we were both freshmen at Princeton in September 2001. In two days time, she is marrying Jason halfway across the world from Paris in San Diego, and I can’t be there. So as a gift to them, to go along with the Waterford, I thought I’d tell you about where we Princetonians learned to eat, and to share a recipe with you that I created for them.

Cottage Club

I was a member of the Cottage Club, in my opinion the most lovely and stately of all the mansions on the street, and which was, not surprisingly, the club of my literary hero, F. Scott Fitzgerald. The heavy wooden door swung open into a bright half-wooden and half-glass paneled foyer, carpeted in thick burgundy rugs that gave meaning to the phrase “snug as a bug,” on which perched great medieval banquet tables. In the winter, a fire would roar in the great brass hearth, and we would pull couches up, and roast splitting too-hot chestnuts in pans on the flames. Then the double staircase, which curled like a moustache to the second floor, where we had the white-paneled billiards room, and a library which is a reconstruction of the famed 14th century Merton College library, down the street from where I live in England. Then out onto the balustrade, held up by Grecian columns, overlooking the fountained courtyard to one side, and the gazeboed lawns to the other. And finally, back down to the dining room, long with two rows of round tables that welcomed like the curves of open arms. And above the fireplace, in Latin as permanent as the stone itself, read: “Where there are friends, there are riches.”

That hearth was never lit, but there was fire, full of light and heat, which blazed from it. There are many things that are criticized about the eating clubs, and looking back, though I loved Cottage like my home, it is supernatural that a group of twenty year- olds should have a full staff. People may sense its hauteur as being cold, and debilitating to an already privileged youth, but standing next to Cottage when I was young, and alone, and cold, and confused, was like standing back under the Florida sun. I used to stamp in from the cold, shaking the snow off that had accumulated on the odyssey from the bowels of the library. I would toss my coat to the side, and march into the dining room, with its somehow stately tiger-print curtains. I would take my burgundy cloth napkin from my little member’s cubby hole like the red badge of courage that it was, and go to the buffet for my dinner. With a plate of steaming, oozing “Cottage potatoes” (the best gratin Dauphinois you could ever hang your hat on), I would wander towards Ephraïm, who would seat us religiously in the order in which we arrived, around the great, wide, round tables.

Food for Thought

The eating clubs provided food for thought. I shared those tables with some of the brightest minds of my generation, and while the talk would inevitably begin with a recent trip to New York to visit a Theory sample sale, it would undoubtedly after a few hours meander down the unexplored alleyways of string theory. No two of us did the same thing, and by the time we had plunged into our theses, dinner conversation usually oscillated as regularly as the pendulum of the old grandfather clock between the New York Yankees, and Civil War Yankees; between BMW mechanics, and quantum mechanics; between Henry David Thoreau, and a thorough recapitulation of last Saturday night’s escapades. We would stay seated long past the departure of our quickly-emptied plates, with the snowflakes stopping to peak in from the outside and our bright little party, the reluctance palpable when we knew we could not press another minute out of this already drained night. Then, it was home, to slip between the sheets of a bed with the one you loved, or the sheets of a book if you had to.

Our clubs cost many thousands of dollars, and many of us were fortunate enough to have known many worldly riches. But we also knew that our time there was fleeting. There is a tangible tragedy to Princeton; its nighttime air seems to ring with the generations who still parade down the ghostly knolls of Old Nassau. It is finite. And we knew that the riches extolled above the Cottage fireplace had no value that could be bought. Those friends, like Lauren, with whom I sat, chewing the fat, are by far my greatest wealth. Those hours that I spent there with them, eating, and speaking, and listening, felt like they took place at the center of the Earth, where the world stopped spinning, and the pendulum on that old great grandfather clock would finally rest from its grueling repetition. Time stood still, and we clutched at our youth with such a thankful and ferocious tenacity. Those hours, this side of Paradise, though they seemed to unfold at the very center of the Earth, were as close to heaven as I knew how to get.

But the pendulum never did go still, and the world never did stop from turning. Time passed, and at the end of four years, like all Princetonians before us, we were released, like hopeful bright doves from a lovely, cushy cage. We flew in every direction: some of us up to rest in the real Paradise far too young, others confined to a fiery hell of a disappointing Wall Street, feeling far too old. Me, I flew off to Europe. Lauren, back to California. Rarely now do the paths, which once led to the same door every night, cross—but she reads my column every week. Though we cannot savor each other, we must relish the successes that keep us apart. And so, as a celebration of the years gone past, of the steady, sure march of time, whose pace we have now grown to know, and that has led Lauren, the first of my Princeton friends, to marry a man who is worthy of her, I offer the things I love most: a few chosen words, and a few bites of food, the things that originally brought us together around those round tables years ago now, handmade just for her.

I believe I quote Fitzgerald when I write that “This is wisdom: to love, and to live.” Princeton taught me the first; my life since has taught me the other. To Lauren and Jason: I hope you’ll do both.

Très Bien Ensemble

The soon-to-be newlyweds both love steak and olives; I ate a lot of both at Cottage, though I rarely ate them together. For this recipe, I tried them in a pas de deux, and its success is a testament to the coupling of two seemingly different, but ultimately complementary forces. I blend a chunky, briny, tapenade Provençale from both black and green olives, and spoon it onto a seared, sliced strip steak. The meat, with its crisp, tender, mellow bite is brightened by the piquancy of the bubbling, herbaceous tapenade. Lauren and Jason, I’m not sure which of you is the steak and which is the olives, but I hope you’ll agree that the two go very well together—that they are très bien ensemble.

About the author: Kerry Saretsky is the creator of French Revolution Food, where she reinvents her family's classic French recipes in a fresh, chic, modern way. She also writes the The Secret Ingredient series for Serious Eats.

Sliced Steak with Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade

-serves 2 to 4-

Steak Ingredients

2 12-ounce New York strip steaks
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt and pepper
Herbes de Provence

Steak Procedure

1. Season the steaks with the olive oil, and a liberal amount of salt, pepper, and herbes de Provence.

2. Heat a heavy-bottomed skillet over medium to medium-high heat. Sear the steaks 6-7 minutes per side, then allow to rest for 10 minutes.

3. Slice, and serve with the two-olive tapenade (recipe follows).

Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade Ingredients

1 clove garlic
2 cups mixed pitted nicoise and picholine olives (or any black and green olives you like)
Leaves from 5 stems of fresh thyme
1/2 tablespoon anchovy paste
1 tablespoon fresh flat leaf parsley
1 1/2 tablespoons capers
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1/4 cup olive oil
Salt and pepper

Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade Procedure

1. Demolish the garlic clove in the food processor. Then add in all the rest of the ingredients and pulse until you are left with an olive rubble.

2. Spoon over the hot sliced steak, and serve extra on the side with baguette. If you have extra tapenade, you can serve it with anything: baguette sandwiches, crudités, chicken, fish. You may want to double the recipe, just to have it on hand.

Serious Salsa: (Not Exactly) My Uncle's Salsa

2009-07-09T21:00:00Z

From Recipes

Note: You may know Lisa Fain as the Homesick Texan. We (along with many other people) have been fans of her work for quite some time now. She'll be joining us each week this summer with a refreshing salsa recipe for you to try. Take a gander. And now, andale, Lisa, andale!

“I must have done something right because the bowl was soon empty.”

I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a salsa within my reach. From the stone bowls of fiery red and green salsas on the table at my favorite Mexican restaurants to the slender bottles of pepper vinegar used to liven up fried catfish, salsas are my condiment of choice.

Of course, I’m not alone in this love. It’s been widely reported that Mexican-style salsas now outsell ketchup in this country. And while there are many fine bottled salsas on the market, you haven’t really had salsa until you’ve made it yourself.

You can make salsas year-round, but I think the summer months are the best time for salsas, as most of the ingredients needed are in season and fresh. Everything from raspberries to radishes, peaches to corn—all are an excellent foundation for a vibrant, piquant salsa.

The first homemade salsa I ever made was my uncle’s—a simple tomato-based affair, made with tomatoes, jalapeños, onions, and cilantro. He also throws in a generous dose of chili powder, his secret ingredient that gives it a Tex-Mex kick.

It’s an old family favorite that we slather on everything—from turkey leftovers at Thanksgiving to hamburgers on the Fourth of July. And naturally, it’s a fine dipping sauce for tortilla chips, too.

When I first moved to New York, I was missing this salsa something fierce. I asked my uncle for the recipe, but he admitted that he didn’t have one; if I wanted to figure out how to make it, I’d just have to watch and learn.

I took diligent notes, but when I presented him with my interpretation he took a bite, shook his head, and said, “This is nothing like my salsa! What have you done?”

But I chose to ignore him—he’s prone to exaggeration, after all. And I must have done something right because the bowl was soon empty.

So even though this salsa may not be exactly like my uncle’s, it’s still bright, spicy, and refreshing. And that’s the beauty of salsa—it’s flexible enough that when you make it you can make it your own.

(Not Exactly) My Uncle’s Salsa

Ingredients

1 can tomatoes (28-ounce; or about a pound of fresh Roma tomatoes, peeled and chopped)
2 Serrano peppers, diced (or you can substitute 2 jalapeños, which are milder.) Be sure and either wear gloves or wash your hands immediately after chopping the peppers so you don’t burn other parts of yourself.
1 cup of cilantro leaves
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/4 cup diced onion
2 tablespoons of chili powder (add more to taste, if you like)
Salt to taste
A dash of sugar
Juice from 1/2 lime

Procedure

Put all ingredients in the blender and blend until smooth. Taste and adjust spices if needed.

About the author: Lisa Fain is a seventh-generation Texan who now hangs her hat in New York City. To keep in touch with her roots, she writes and photographs the food blog Homesick Texan.

New Orleans Jazz Trumpeter Kermit Ruffins Smokes 'Cue for Fans

2009-07-09T20:30:00Z

Photograph from dsb nola on Flickr

From Putumayo World Music, in an interview with Kermit Ruffins, trumpeter in the Rebirth Brass Band and Barbecue Swingers:

So you originally were barbecuing to have some hot food at the [Barbecue Swingers] shows, then the idea just caught on? Yep, the tailgating started [it] all. I would cook hot sausage for the guys during break time, and whatever was left over, we would give it to the fans. Then I bought a big grill and started cooking for everyone, still up [to] today!

Sounds like my kind of show. [via Boing Boing]

Dinner Tonight: Smoked Trout "Pâté"

2009-07-09T20:00:00Z

From Recipes

Smoked trout is a criminally underreported ingredient in my book. Smoked salmon gets all kinds of attention, in its cold-smoked form as the centerpiece of bagels, but the humble trout has no one to sing its praises. It's always found in hot-smoked form, meaning it's fully cooked and flaky. Healthy and relatively inexpensive, you can add it to any number of dishes—soups, spreads, and pastas. I still think about the smoked trout patties I made while back, which were wonderfully flavorful.

I came across this recipe in a Times Online article, which lists five unique ways to use smoked trout. I went with their first suggestion, a dip which they've fancifully called a "pâté." Whatever you want to call it, I took this appetizer and turned it into a light summer meal with a big salad of lightly dressed mesclun greens alongside. Finn Crisp crackers, available in many grocery stores, were the perfect vehicle for the creamy, smoky concoction balanced with lemon juice and spiked with a pinch of cayenne.

Smoked Trout "Pâté"

-serves 2-

Adapted from TimesOnline

Ingredients

10 ounces smoked trout fillet, skin and bones removed
3.5 ounces cream cheese
Juice of half a lemon
Cayenne pepper, to taste
Rye crackers or toast

Procedure

1. Mash the fillets with the cream cheese and lemon juice. Season to taste (the trout will already be somewhat salty).

2. Add a pinch of cayenne, if desired and to taste. Serve on crackers or toast.

Come on in 'The Kitchn'

2009-07-09T19:00:00Z

Each week we round up our favorite posts and recipes from our friends at The Kitchn.

This week, the Kitchn shares an invaluable tip: packing spice blends for those cooking on vacation. Three spice blends instead of eleven individual spices? Sounds like vacation to me.

Also on the Kitchn, tips on how to cook at home while moving, bacon-wrapped potato bites, setting up a basic home bar, and what to do with that leftover pickle juice.

How to Build a Basic Bar: Does your "liquor cabinet" consist of some sad mini-bar bottles of booze? Here's a primer on elevating your entertaining to the next level.
How Bacon-Wrapped Potato Bites: Accompanied by a spicy sour cream dipping sauce, this is yet another delicious take on the "wrapping everything with bacon" formula.
Moving and Eating Well: In the midst of moving? There's no need to order delivery ever again when you have these tips on surviving the unpacking process.
What to Do With...Leftover Pickle Juice?: That pickle brine doesn't have to go to waste with these helpful suggestions.

A Rediscovered Beach Burger at Surfside Beach Shack in Nantucket

2009-07-09T18:00:00Z

From A Hamburger Today

"There was a little something in that burger—the seasoning of salt air? A stray grain of sand? Or just the memory of burgers past?—that I’ve never tasted anywhere else."

Proust was right—nothing brings back childhood memories like a bite from the past. But nothing brings on the sad grown-up veil of disillusionment like coming back to a childhood favorite that’s not quite what you remembered.

So as I drove a rusty old Land Cruiser out to Surfside Beach on Nantucket Island, in search of a once-beloved beach shack burger that I hadn’t ordered in over a decade, I was more than a little nervous. Would it taste as good as I'd remembered?

These burgers had been the highlight of many hot summer afternoons, back in my days of sandcastle building. My always-conscientious mother would pack a lunch in the cooler, turkey sandwiches and lemonade and Tupperware containers of strawberries, but healthier options held little interest for me. I would always beg for a burger.

How could I not? Walking from the parking lot down to the water, we’d have to pass the snack shack—a weathered, shingled hut that looked as if one strong gust of wind would blow it right over. From inside crept the most incredible aroma, a smell of browning beef and sizzling grease that cut through the scent of salty air and sun-warmed pavement, following a hungry kid all the way down to the waves and hitting straight in the stomach. To get a whiff of the burgers and not have one for lunch? The thought was too much to bear.

So I'd beg, and I'd plead, and while it wasn’t a sure thing, my parents would often give in, handing over a five-dollar bill that I’d crumple happily in my hand. (Plus, if I was really lucky, a few extra quarters for a Slush Puppy.) And wrapping a flower-patterned towel over my sandy little rump, I would run up the hill for my very favorite burger. An impassioned eater even at age six, I’d insist on going up to the shack myself so I could layer on just the right condiments, even though it meant leaving the beach and waiting for lunch on the hot, smelly pavement. (I didn't trust anyone else to get the ketchup, relish, and chopped onion right.) But it was always worth it.

Until this last weekend, I hadn’t had one of their burgers in years, thanks to busier summers and an extended stint as a vegetarian. Somewhat ironically, it was a burger that convinced me to stop eating red meat, and another that got me hooked again. An unfortunately bright pink, mealy McDonald's patty scared me off the cow at age ten for nearly a decade—until the smell of grilling cheeseburgers at my first college tailgate finally cracked through my resolve. In recent years, I’ve had the occasional burger, though I no longer spend my summers on Surfside Beach, boogie boarding in the Atlantic.

But when visiting family on the Fourth of July, I ran away to the beach for lunch. Pulling into the Surfside parking lot, the smell of sizzling meat hit me before the sound of the ocean did. And, to my enormous relief and delight, the burger was everything I’d remembered. A juicy, thin griddled patty, still pink and beefy in the middle, under a blanket of fully melted American cheese—still just five bucks, an outright steal for a ritzy little island. There was a real sear on the outside, and real flavor within, juices (and a bit of char) seeping into the soft interior of the toasted, sesame-studded roll. And there was a little something in that burger—the seasoning of salt air? A stray grain of sand? Or just the memory of burgers past?—that I’ve never tasted anywhere else.

Nantucket Island has changed a lot in recent decades, and goodness knows I have, too. But it’s comforting to know that some burgers stay the same.

Surfside Beach Shack

Surfside Beach, Nantucket MA 02554 (map)

Cook the Book: Crepas Salguero

2009-07-09T17:15:00Z

From Recipes

I've alway thought of making dulce le leche at home as a bit of molecular gastonomy. It's pretty easy, just simmer a can of sweetened condensed milk on your stove top for a few hours and the contents of the can transforms itself from sticky insipid condensed milk into sweet and caramelly delicious dulce de leche. Latin American home cooks have been doing this for years, but every time I accomplish this feat at home, I feel as though there was a bit of magic or at least some complicated science involved. (I must warn you that making dulce de leche at home requires a bit of attention. Monitoring the water level over the cans is imperative, they must be completely covered by at least 1 inch of water at all times throughout the cooking process.)

These Crepas Salguero from Sasa Mahr-Batuz and Andy Pforzheimer's The Barcelona Cookbook are a take on the pancakes de dulce de leche that are served all over Uruguay. The traditional preparation is French-style crepes filled with whipped cream and dulce de leche. Sounds pretty amazing, right? These are embellished with a bittersweet chocolate sauce infused with coffee and served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The recipe sounds incredible as it is, but I wonder what would happen if I replaced the vanilla with dulce de leche ice cream, or even better salted caramel ice cream...

Win 'The Barcelona Cookbook'

As always with our Cook the Book feature, we have five (5) copies of The Barcelona Cookbook to give away this week. Enter to win here »

Crepas Salguero

- serves 4 -

Adapted from The Barcelona Cookbook by Sasa Mahr-Batuz and Andy Pforzheimer.

Ingredients

Crepes

Two 12-ounce cans condensed milk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1 large egg
1 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons sugar

Chocolate Sauce

1 pound semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped, or 1 pound semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup brewed coffee
2 cups whipped cream, sweetened if desired, for serving
2 pints vanilla ice cream, for serving

Procedure

1. To make the dulce de leche: Remove the labels from the cans of condensed milk and submerge them in a large pot filled with water. Bring to a boil over high heat, reduce to a rapid simmer for about 4 hours. Add water as needed. Check often to make sure that the can are always covered with water by at least 1 inch; otherwise they could explode. Remove the cans from the water and let them cool.

2. In a large mixing bowl, mix together the flour, milk, ware, egg, and melted butter. Whisk by hand for about 2 minutes. Add the sugar and whisk for 2 minutes longer. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl and let the crepe batter rest for about 20 minutes.

3. To make the chocolate sauce: Put the chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl and microwave for 2 1/2 to 3 minutes, or until softened and shiny. The chocolate will not melt completely. Add the cream and coffee and stir until smooth. Set aside at room temperature.

4. Heat 2 9-inch nonstick pans over low heat. If you have seasoned 9-inch crepe pans, use them. Spray lightly with vegetable oil spray and ladle 3 tablespoons of crepe batter into the pans. Tip and roll the pans to spread the batter evenly over the bottom of the pans and cook for about 2 minutes. Using a spatula, flip the crepes and cook for 2 minutes longer, or until lightly browned. Lift the crepes from the pans and stack on a plate. These crepes do not stick to one another. Continue cooking the crepes until you have 16. Expect to throw out the first crepe in each pan; this is typical, as anyone who has made crepes knows. The first one never works, and after it has flopped, the pan is seasoned appropriately so that the rest are prefect.

5. Open the cans of boiled condensed milk. The milk will be caramel brown and thick.

6. Lay the crepes out on a work surface. Spread a thick stripe - about 2 tablespoons - of the dulce de leche (the boiled condensed milk) down the center of each crepe. Top the dulce de leche with an equal-sized stripe of whipped cream. Roll the crepes like a cigar and put 2 crepes on each plate.

7. Ladle about 3 tablespoons of the chocolate sauce over the crepes and serve with ice cream.

Video: How to Peel a Banana Like a Monkey

2009-07-09T16:00:00Z

This isn't necessarily new (the idea, I mean; the video, which appears after the jump, starting making the rounds yesterday), but ... does anyone else peel their bananas that way?

How to Open a Banana Like a Monkey

In Videos: The Banana as the Atheist's Nightmare, Explained
In Videos: Nannerpus, Denny's Super Bowl Commercial
In Videos: The Banana Man and the International Banana Club
In Videos: Original Chiquita Banana Commercial (1940s)

Chicago: The Second Rising of the Han Dynasty

2009-07-09T15:15:00Z

"Fusion which seems confusing and breaks all conventions is sometimes the perfect formula for seriously good eats."

Chicago's Bridgeport neighborhood is known for many things: It is the birthplace of mayors (or maybe that should be reworded as the cradle of progressive American liberal dictators), including Mayor Richard Daley and his father. It is the home to the our last Major League Baseball Championship–winning team, the Chicago White Sox (though due to their second-class status behind the Cubs, the only way anyone on that team is getting a beer is with their own five bucks—or if they're drinking in Bridgeport). It is also home to many blue-liners and firemen and is one of the last few living enclaves of sausage-fingered blue collar laborers.

However, Bridgeport, despite having a few gems like Ed's Potsticker house, is not what you'd call a fertile crescent when it comes to good Chicago restaurants. Han 202, named after the establishment of China's legendary Han Dynasty, might change that. While you can read more about the total experience here on Newcity Resto, I wanted to focus on one particular dish which sums up Han 202's idiosyncratic nature: the beef and lemongrass salad.

The salad like the restaurant is an idiosyncratic fusion of Korean BBQ, i.e. smoky charred sweet glazed beef, Thai flavors - citrus zing from the lemongrass, with an American accent - a crunchy tartness from the julienned apple underneath. Just for kicks, chef Guan Chen throws a half cut strawberry (which melds with the lemongrass and cuts through the richness of the beef quite nicely) on top.

In addition to being one of favorite dishes tasted this year, it is the perfect example that there are no rules in cooking, that fusion which seems confusing and breaks all conventions is sometimes the perfect formula for seriously good eats.

Han 202

605 West 31st Street, Chicago IL 60616 (b/n Wallace Street and Lake Park Ave; map)
312-949-1314

Serious Heat: Culinary Russian Roulette with Padron Chiles

2009-07-09T14:00:00Z

Note: On Thursdays, Andrea Lynn, senior editor of Chile Pepper magazine, drops by with some Serious Heat. This week, she joined forces with travel writer Kate Mulcrone to discover the mystery of a Moroccan spice blend.

Photograph from WordRidden on Flickr

With the start of summer, the hunt at the local farmers' markets begin for my seasonal chile addiction—pimientos de Padron. In season from mid-June through September, what makes this crinkly, small green chile pepper originally from Spain so magical? It’s playing Russian roulette with your food. While a majority of the chiles are mild, there will be about 1 out of 10 that will deliver a pow to your taste buds. Quickly cooked in olive oil and brushed with sea salt, the chiles are addictive for their sweet mellowness. Then, there's the fun of unexpectedly hitting that spicy chile in the bunch. One popular legend says there are very few spicy ones in June, but by September, almost all of them are harnessed with fire. Calvin Trillin wrote a beautiful essay on his addiction to the chiles in the January '05 issue of Gourmet that gives a glimpse into the padron chile obsession.

The best way to eat them is to savor them in unfussy glory—toss in a pan with olive oil and cook over high heat until blistered, about 3 to 5 minutes. Sprinkle with sea salt, and devour. Start looking for them in farmers' markets, but don't worry if you can't find them—utilize the beauty of the Internet and order them online from La Tienda.

Seriously Italian: Breadcrumb-Stuffed Vegetables

2009-07-09T13:00:00Z

From Recipes

"Besides being cheap and accessible, breadcrumbs are truly a blank canvas for individual creativity."

Verdure Ripieni, or stuffed vegetables, are popular in many of Italy’s regions, with varying nods to local ingredients and traditions. Through the ages Italians have always relied on breadcrumbs as an economical and easy way to stretch a few ingredients into something tasty and belly-filling. Although these beauties make a terrific side dish for grilled or roasted meats, they’re hearty enough to be a meal on their own.

Besides being cheap and accessible, breadcrumbs are truly a blank canvas for individual creativity. Remember this golden rule for seemingly simple dishes: when working with only a few ingredients, make sure they are top notch, and treat them with the utmost care. There is far less room for error when a dish has only two or three elements.

Homemade breadcrumbs are best, and most Italians insist on making their own. I picked up a small sourdough boule at the farmer’s market last weekend for mine. I trimmed the crust just a tiny bit and cut the bread into even-sized cubes, leaving them uncovered for about a day to dry them out, then toasted the cubes until they were slightly brown. After a few batches in the food processor, I had a huge pile of tasty crumbs of variegated gold. If you can’t make your own, breadcrumbs from the local bakery are the next best bet. I don't trust supermarket breadcrumbs. Where did they come from, and when were they made?

I could have used full-sized vegetables, but I found some miniature tomatoes and sweet peppers at the farmers' market that inspired a diminutive theme. I cut zucchini into thick rounds, and wedged some sweet Vidalia onions. With a small paring knife, I cut the core out of the onions to create a crater to hold the crumbs. I cut the peppers in half and removed the ribs and seeds, cored the halved tomatoes, and made little cavities in the center of the zucchini rounds.

To finish the vegetable prep, generously grease a baking dish that will snugly hold all the vegetables with extra-virgin olive oil, then arrange the vegetables inside, brushing them with more of the oil and seasoning with salt and pepper. Preheat the oven to 375°F.

To season 3/4 of a cup of breadcrumbs, I heated three tablespoons of olive oil in a pan. I had some 'nduja from Boccalone in the refrigerator, so I melted about an ounce of that into the oil; you can infuse the oil with minced garlic, or a squirt of anchovy paste, or render some finely chopped pancetta, prosciutto or guanciale in the oil to enrich the crumbs.

I mixed the crumbs with oil, and added a handful of minced, chopped herbs: I used parsley, marjoram, basil and mint from our garden. I also added three minced scallions and a few spoonfuls of grated Pecorino Romano; grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano works too. A few squirts of fresh lemon juice ties all the flavors together.

Cram the crumbs into all the nooks and crannies of the vegetables, and create little mounds on top. It isn't necessary to be neat and fussy since the crumbs that fall between are going to make a delicious “sauce” when it is all done. Store any leftover crumbs in an airtight container in the refrigerator for the next use; they are delicious tossed with al dente pasta and olive oil.

Drizzle over more olive oil over the top, and pour a splash of white wine and enough water into the bottom of the pan to come up about one-third of the depth of the vegetables. Cover the pan with tin foil and bake the vegetables for about 25 to 30 minutes. Remove the foil and add a little more water if necessary, and bake for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender and the breadcrumbs are toasty on top.

We decided to make a meal out of our verdure ripieni, serving them with herbed rice and a simple salad—a colorful, economical and nutrition-packed meal.

About the author: Gina DePalma is the pastry chef at Mario Batali's Babbo restaurant in New York City and the author of Dolce Italiano: Desserts from the Babbo Kitchen. She is currently in Rome researching her next book and further exploring her passions for Italian food.

Watch It with Us: ‘Top Chef Masters,’ Episode 4

2009-07-09T01:00:00Z

From left: Rodriguez, Lo, Peel, and Besh.

Top Chef Masters returns tonight! Just like we did with the Next Food Network Star earlier this week, we’re inviting you to tune in with us tonight, at 10 p.m. ET, and join our real-time, open thread discussion. Tonight's episode, "Magic Chefs," features Anita Lo, Douglas Rodriguez, John Besh, and Mark Peel. Who do you think has the upper hand?

'What We Eat When We Eat Alone'

2009-07-09T00:00:00Z

The illustrations in Deborah Madison's new book were done by her husband, Patrick McFarlin, whose icebreaker question was the catalyst for the work. Photograph from Gibbs Smith Blog

The Los Angeles Times reviews Deborah Madison's new book:

What We Eat When We Eat Alone (Gibbs Smith, $25) is not a book of recipes for smaller portions of the dishes people eat every day. It's full of stories about the way people approach food when they are alone, whether they shop or poke around the fridge; whether they cook or simply assemble what they find; whether they eat odd dishes no one else would touch or take the time for an appealing full meal. Some people make a humble meal of crackers broken into milk; cookbook writer Clifford Wright sometimes makes duck breast—which he says he can't afford to serve to guests.

Crackers in milk? Seriously? When I eat alone, it's most often a sandwich or a simple pasta—things that can be prepared and cleaned up after quickly. What do you make when you dine solo?

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French in a Flash: Sliced Steak with Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade

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Sliced Steak with Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade

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Chunky Two-Olive Tapenade Procedure

Serious Salsa: (Not Exactly) My Uncle's Salsa

“I must have done something right because the bowl was soon empty.”

(Not Exactly) My Uncle’s Salsa

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"There was a little something in that burger—the seasoning of salt air? A stray grain of sand? Or just the memory of burgers past?—that I’ve never tasted anywhere else."

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Chicago: The Second Rising of the Han Dynasty

"Fusion which seems confusing and breaks all conventions is sometimes the perfect formula for seriously good eats."

Han 202

Serious Heat: Culinary Russian Roulette with Padron Chiles

Seriously Italian: Breadcrumb-Stuffed Vegetables

"Besides being cheap and accessible, breadcrumbs are truly a blank canvas for individual creativity."

Watch It with Us: ‘Top Chef Masters,’ Episode 4

'What We Eat When We Eat Alone'