Cooking Magazines

While I know there are more pressing things to worry about in the current economic shitshow, one of the ones that keeps me up at night is the possible (probable?) demise of cooking magazines. I mean, I love the internet as much--if not more--than anyone, but there's something about a cooking magazine that makes its presence, as a complete thing you can purchase, have delivered, hold in your hand and cart around with you, special. While I have New York Times piling up in my entryway--nothing in there that isn't just as well on the web (except the crossword)--I eagerly await the arrival of my cooking magazines. In proof: earlier this month I was, probably inordinately, angry with myself because I thought I had drunkenly discovered and subsequently lost my newest issue of Bon Appetit. Turns out that was just a bad dream, and it arrived safe and sound a week later. Phew!

I mean, sure, you can get all the recipes you want on epicurious.com and other, less trustworthy sites (I don't care how Mary from Montana makes chicken, bigoven.com), and, sure, you can even print them out for that real world effect, but there's nothing like a couple of pages of Gourmet stuck together with tomato sauce to let you know that, if you can manage to pry the pages apart, there's a good recipe waiting for you on one of those pages. And, of course, who can ignore the joys of editorial food photography spreads: pies on chairs in the middle of a field or a pork loin inexplicably balanced on a porch railing. Sure the pictures might be online, but somehow, it's just not the same.

When I'm home, I love going through my mother's collection of these magazines from the eighties--if only for the abundance of ads for cigarettes (shocking!) and booze, and all the big hair. But I also like to see what she dogeared: Did she really intend to make that ridiculous cheese ball? Or was she just marking it to show to dad later for a laugh? More philosophically, they provide a more immediate and detailed account of what foods we ate and how--the minutiae of which is something that cookbooks cannot capture in the same way.

So please, oh captains of industry, though I know print media is allegedly going the way of the telegraph, dodo bird and marrying someone from your town, please keep cooking magazines alive--if only for future generations' amusement in our current cultural obsession with all things edible--and so they can laugh and ask themselves if we ever really made a tongue steak for valentines day.

Bussaco: Premature Review

A new restaurant has moved in across the street from the Park Slope Food Coop (an organization of which I am a member, and yes, I know, they should have a hyphen: co-op =hippy sharing organization, coop=chickens). Previously in its space was The Black Pearl, a sort of vaguely Irish (maybe?) vaguely bistro-y place where I had bad mimosas once. Anyway, it's great to have something else there, and it was getting a little press, so I decided to make the SEVEN BLOCK trip to Union and check it out.

I read somewhere that they changed chefs about two weeks in and are going to "gradually transition the menu," or some such rhetoric. The point is, because the restaurant is new and in the middle of a shake up, I'm going to wager that experiences in the next few weeks will vary widely.

First things first, the cocktails are fab, AND the wine list/cocktail menu has a helpful graph in place of a table of contents. Everyone loves a graph. I had a Marconi (kind of like a Negroni but with prosecco and a Campari cousin) v. good; one of my friends had a cider martini which was good as far as girly drinks go, and another friend had a Rye Manhattan that I REALLY recommend.

This place takes drinking seriously, as evidenced by a picture of their bar.



The chef change became readily apparent when we heard the specials from our lovely waiter. He described something called "Testa" that was a pork puree--now anyone with Italian 101 knows "testa" means "head." When I called him out on trying to cover up the fact that he was describing "head cheese" (I'm a bitch, I know), he came back with the spiel that it's respectful to eat the whole animal or some coop/foodie bull. Anyway, I ordered it, and it was wonderful--a little crispy, healthily salted, and the lightly poached egg on top was just the right simple accompaniment. Other, more "normal" firsts came from the regular (old?) menu, but all were equally delicious, if less "adventurous."

The entrees, all from the menu, were generally simple affairs: thinly sliced duck with spaetzel and brussels sprouts (which google just told me there's an "s" on), steak with mustard greens and scallops in a white pepper--pear "gastrique" (ok, that's kinda fancy). All of these dishes were really very nice and well executed, but seemed a little too simple after the fireworks show that the appetizers put on. One friend, a vegetarian-ish person, was disappointed with her pappardelle and beets. I think it needed lemon...or something. Anyway, it was obviously a throwaway, obligatory vegetarian dish, and I'm not sure you can get away with that in the Slope, guys.

Desserts were rather lackluster, but maybe new chefie hasn't got around to it yet. For the time being, I recommend you let the sommelier guide you to an after-dinner scotch or one of their good selection of dessert wines.

As an added bonus, the restaurant was baby-free when I went (yess!), but the squishy booths could be seen as kid friendly...maybe...kids like that shit right?

Gadgets: Immersion Blender

I think Mario Batali said that any chef worth his or her weight in flour could make any dish with a basic stove, pan and spoon--or something to that effect. Well, sure, Mario, if I had all freakin' day and someone was paying me millions to endorse their pan, I probably could cook pretty much anything with those things. But really, why would I? And, more philosophically, why is it somehow more "pure" or "worthy" or impressive if I spend an hour and all of my energy hand-whisking egg whites? Mario, this is the future: we don't have to work so hard anymore! People in the future are busy! There are blogs to read, reality tv to watch, segues to ride. We do not have time for your grandmother's methods.

I love kitchen gadgets. And, as you can tell, I've got their back in this fight. I collect them like precious moments dolls collect dust. One of my favorites is the Immersion Blender. This guy is especially useful for making soups. Lots of recipes tell you to smooth out your soup by pouring it into the regular blender in batches. Um, guys, that is messy! And soup is hot! Bad idea. When pureeing soup, this guy is your friend:



Right there I am making "Azteca Butternut Squash Soup" which is basically butternut squash soup with black beans and red pepper in it. The base of the soup is the squash and tons of onion and celery. After that softens up, those three ingredients get blended. Now, I don't think the Aztecs had blenders, immersion or otherwise, but they were pretty smart, so they probably just programmed a sundial to do it or whatever. Or else, the name of the soup is just something made up by Bon Appetit to make it sound better. Shocking. Anyway, here's the soup post-blend:




Looks awesome, right? It was. And I didn't even have to spray soup all over my counter tops and myself to get it that way. Or squash it with my feet, like Mr. Batali would apparently have me do. Jerk.

Oh and here's a tip: My mom got one of these and immediately decided she hated it because it sprayed tomato sauce all over her sweater. It's called an IMMERSION blender. You have to IMMERSE it in the soup/sauce if you want it to work. K?

Bobo soso

I must begin by apologizing for the lack of updating, I have been suffering an endless slew of ailments (one of which being Christmas) and general malaise, so I haven't felt much like sharing or cooking. I also had to cut the drinking due to said ailments--you can see where the ill-will towards life comes in.

To go along with this general feeling of negativity I give you: a Negative(ish) Restaurant Review! I have to admit, that even though I love eating at and hearing about good restaurants, nothing can compete with the glee I find in reading a real burn of a review, especially by every food maven's favorite cantankerous culinaire, Frank Bruni from the New York Times. I really enjoyed his slam of a psychedelic Thai restaurant just because it was so grandpa-cranky. Of course, I probably would have hated it, too, from the sounds of it.

So anyway, I guess I should have listened to the Brunmeister when he gave Bobo one star--now, granted, one star is actually not terrible--but I forgot, or thought he gave it two, or whatever. In any event, there I was, with friend in tow, both of us just off antibiotics and looking for a party. I knew Bobo could be pretty scene-y, but it was the weekend after Christmas and we planned to eat in the more casual "Den," so I figured it wouldn't be too bad.

To give credit where it's due, we were graciously offered to sit either upstairs in the fancy dining room or downstairs in the more casual aforementioned "Den" even though we were, despite fancy shoes, probably not dressed for either. We took an upstairs menu and a downstairs table. So far so good. Our waiter was helpful and attentive to start, we ordered a tasty wine that was under $40, he offered to double a scallop appetizer for my friend to make an entree, we ordered oysters of the East Coast persuasion and we were happy.

Now before you envision some sort of seafood poisoning, waiter-tripping, kitchen fire disaster, I'm going to stop you right there. It was fine.

But that was just it: It was fine. My friend's scallops were ceviche-ish (which I like, but she didn't) and small (which no one likes) and the presentation was basically scallops tossed with pea shoots (?). I mean, maybe something was lost in the translation between appetizer and entree? I doubt it. The scallops, the shoots and the plate were all the same color, and the taste was nothing to jump around about either: vaguely lemon does not a flavor palate make, people. I had skate wing that sort of reminded me of country club food--nothing bad about it, but nothing good either. It was fried, which I was mildly perturbed about since the menu said nothing about its method of preparation, and I hate fried fish in fancy restaurants. The menu did say something about pomegranate, which I got, in the form of 5 seeds sort of next to the fish. It was dry. There was some tasteless mush underneath it--white bean puree? It was too dark to tell.

Oh, and our waiter totally disappeared for the rest of the meal, probably off to chic-er tables. We had dessert, which was good, although the gingerbread panna cotta had more random pomegranate seeds and the apple crisp (mine is better) was served in a coffee cup, which made it kind of hard to share.

So yeah, Bobo is ok, I guess, if all you want is wine, oysters and to be surrounded by people cooler than you. But I'll take fish and chips in a newspaper wrapping over tortured skate wing with indeterminate sides any day.

Tongue Tales

I've been feeling really guilty lately about my inexperience with "weird" meats. Said experience overall has to be divided into two categories: pre-vegetarian and post--with a twelve year hiatus in between. Before I became a vegetarian at the age of eleven, I was a very adventurous eater as far as kids go. My parents never let me order off of the kids menu at restaurants, and I pretty much had to eat whatever my mom plunked down in front of me when we ate at home. Now, my mother has always been a good cook--but she didn't really become a gourmand until I left for college (dammit). So meals at the house were of your basic supermarket check-out line cooking magazine variety--inventive and better than anything my friends ate, but generally not too out there.

Anyway, so the first "weird" meat I can remember coming into contact with was tongue, albeit very flighting contact. My mother tried to hide the tongue underneath a burger roll, and claimed, when questioned, that it was meatloaf. Now, the most frightening thing about this was that the piece of meat sitting on my burger bun actually LOOKED like a tongue--complete with visible taste buds and a crease down the middle--so there was really no question about what it was, despite my mother's protestations. Of course, we refused to eat the tongue sandwiches and ordered pizza.

The second, shall we say, incident came when a neighbor shoot a moose. Now, growing up in the tundra, I have always had a soft spot for these gentle, stupid beasts. They seem more to me like something you might adopt as a backyard pet than something you would want to eat. Well in any event, there was dead moose to be had--and lots of it, so my family ended up with a share of three moose steaks. I think mom broiled them (it's the catch all cooking method for my people). Unfortunately for me, but luckily for the moose population, they taste like shoe. And not even nice shoes with soft Italian leather--no, moose tastes like barn boot. I don't think we'll be seeing moose steak for two at Les Halles anytime soon. I just can't blame my mother's cooking for this one...not even a butter, truffle, bacon sauce could have saved that meal.

Which brings me to the other side of the tofu fence. Since renouncing vegetarianism, I've eaten pates of all kinds (yum), kidney for breakfast in honor of Bloomsday (yuck), elk (yum), alligator (meh), and, last night, I gave tongue another shot. You see, there I was about a week ago out for dinner with some friends at a Mexican place in the West-ish Village called Cabrito, and there on the menu was my old muscle-y nemesis--this time in the guise of a taco not a burger bun. It seemed like the perfect moment for tongue and me to reunite, the taco was small, there were lots of other ingredients covering the tongue up, and I had been drinking so my inhibitions were lowered. Dear reader, I didn't order. And much to my foodie embarrassment, two of my friends were brave enough to order it! I had failed as an "adventurous" eater! The reviews? Friend 1: "It's good." Friend 2: "I wish I hadn't ordered tongue."

A week goes by and my guilt only increases, despite the lackluster reviews of my friends. How serendipitous that the special at my neighborhood bar last night was a tongue Reuben. Now, Rubens are my favorite sandwich, so here again I was faced with a perfect situation for possible enjoyment of tongue. I ordered it after some reassurance from the bartender that the sauerkraut cut the richness of the meat. So, how was it? It was rich and kind of greasy and I sort of wished there was more sauerkraut. I also wished I hadn't ordered tongue. Is that totally the tongue's fault? I don't think so. Might it have something to do with the faulty nature of a tongue Reuben? Probably. Will I ever order tongue again? Not if there's elk pate to be had.

Three Day Pie

Easy as pie? Not when Martha's involved.

My whole adventure with this pie started while in a farmers' market: ever since maybe mid-October I kept seeing boxes of Concord grapes on the tables. I never knew grapes were local produce! OK, well, I knew they were growing them for wine purposes in the Northeast, but I didn't know our hostile climate could support the same ones that go in Smucker's Grape Jelly! I had really thought that Concord grapes were a made up thing. This discovery was exciting, but since I don't really have any great love for jelly I wasn't really interested in making that with them. And anyway, jelly is too easy.

So what to do? I asked Google and apparently you can make pie with them! Or, you can if you're crazy and don't have anything to do all weekend. For guidance, I turned to the expert on difficult ingredients and recipes that take forever: Martha Stewart. Bear in mind, this recipe only had three steps....and it took me three days. Martha is exacting in her baking and has no time whatsoever for short cuts, busy lives, or excuses such as homework, going outside or a death in the family. You are making pie. Too fucking bad.

So on the first day I made the crust, which then had to be refridged over night. This would have been pretty straight forward except that my food processor was too small to make two pie crusts in at once....whoops. After about 20 minutes of cheerleading and burning smells, I gave up and used my hands.

The next day I had to deskin three quarts of grapes which, even with roommate assistance took FOREVER. Then I boiled the grapes to separate the seeds out (every grape had, like, 3 seeds in it.) Then I mushed the grapes through a strainer into the bowl with the skins/onto the counter. Then, get this, Martha told me to THROW OUT THE GRAPES leaving only the skins and the grape juice I had just spent two hours making. Then the skin/juice mixture went into the fridge for two hours.

While that was coagulating or whatever it was doing in there I took out the pie crusts, and this is where the chilling overnight came in handy. I rolled out the two crusts in five seconds! One of the crusts was for pie....topper...things....which were supposed to be made using grape leaf cookie cutters (who has those?) but I liked the stars even better....and besides, I already had those.



Ok there they are. Anyway, fast forward....let's get to the good part! So I baked the pie....but remember: this is only day two. Even though the house was filled with tempting pie smells, my roommates couldn't eat it yet because it was still super wobbly and weird. Admittedly, I was a little concerned because the pie was supposed to "jiggle," but my pie was sloshing.



But when I woke up it was fine! More congealing had taken place! Delicious! I stuck the stars on and we were good to go! Finally! Pie! Exclamation points! I was still a little wary about the texture, since the entire pie was basically grape skins. Fortunately for my reputation it was just fine, AND it made everyone's mouth purple like we had been drinking Carlo Rossi. Here is my three day Concord grape election day pie in blue and pie crust color.....



And on the last day I saw that it was good. And I ate it.

An issue dear to my heart

I'd like to begin this blog with an issue very dear to my heart, and one which I have done a lot of swearing about: FRISEE.

I hate frisee, and I believe you should, too. Now, an initial disclaimer--I can't eat raw lettuce anyway, so the pointy beast already has that counting against it. (I spent an entire semester at college feeling terrible and confused because I was eating "healthy" giant salads every day for lunch.) But there is no lettuce I hate more--aesthetically or gastronomically, regardless of what it does to me intestinally. According to the interwebs, frisee is supposedly "mildly bitter," "frisky," "fresh," and "bright." It is also related to the endive (poor, gentle endive). Another aspect of note: it is also commonly found in salad mixes. ....oh you mean the stuff that comes prepackaged? you mean the quick-fix for moms on the go? you mean, put together by a machine? Frisee is pointy, and therefore takes up a lot of space. You can see where I am going here: it makes it look like you're getting a lot more salad than you are if you bulk that shit up with frisee. And it's not just busy suburban moms who use salad mixes--I have the inside scoop and chefs use them too. Even if they don't use a mix, they can keep costs down with a couple of handfuls thrown into their own "spring mix" or whatever. Though it may not seem like much but, especially in mid-range restaurants like your favorite corner bistro, chefs have to run an extremely tight financial ship. But enough economics.

Frisee tastes bad. "Mildly bitter"? I think not. It is extremely bitter and not in a good, dark chocolate kind of way. It tastes like licking pressure-treated wood. And the texture! Pointy! Thorny! Awful. How does this stuff get a starring role (well, ok, supporting) at some of the best restaurants! Here is your pork chop with a concord grape compote and anise seed crust with grilled Parmesan polenta triangles and oh yeah, a pointy salad. Would you like some fresh cracked pepper over that, madam?

No, I would like a normal salad for normal people. Actually, can I have some bacon or something instead?

Also, the stuff looks like it is from space: