I’ve been working on client gift bags this week—running around New York collecting my favorite odds and ends from specialty groceries and the like. Our clients are our first order of business at The Dish’s Dish and we wanted to do something as a special treat. In our gift bag, we have my favorite olive oil, Las Brisas, which is available at Despaña. We also have a bottle of wine à la Union Square Wines, which is where I prefer to buy my wine based on their selection and unmatched customer service. We have top-notch peanuts that I found at Marlow & Daughters as well as excellent honey that the Bromberg brothers (of Blue Ribbon Bakery fame) import from Mexico. Wanna be a client yet? There’s a bag of Jacques Torres chocolate-covered cornflakes to sweeten the deal, but best for last (if I do say so myself) is my mother’s granola.
My mom makes the very best granola. Ever. On the planet. She started making it a few years ago and ever since, everyone in the family has been hooked. Every time we travel to Cincinnati, where she and my dad live, we clear the pantry of her supply in a matter of hours. Then, we insist on taking a Ziploc bag back to New York. So, when I decided to do these client gifts, when thinking of my absolute favorite nibbles and treats, I couldn’t help but get fixated on the granola. Luckily, when I asked my mom if she’d be willing to make it in bulk, she graciously agreed. A few days later, I received a box chock full of the stuff. Instead of making the ten pounds I’d requested, she ended up making 21 pounds! It looked like we were getting a shipment of drugs! All these plastic bags, sealed airtight, packed with the utmost care. In fact, the granola is kind of a drug—it’s so addictive![gallery link="file"]
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Cooks Illustrated No. 96
Cooks Illustrated is my favorite culinary magazine; it is also, I think, the most underrated. The articles are in depth and truly explain why and how the chefs in the test kitchen came to each specific recipe. After reading a recipe, and the steps the team takes to get to that recipe, I always have complete certainty that the dish will work—and that I will know what happened if it doesn’t. There is literally no room for error in these formulas. It doesn’t have the glossy color photos like other food mags, but it doesn’t have any misses, either—only hits.
In this issue, I read about tandoori chicken and how to make in about a two hour-long process instead of the typical 24. I liked reading the article because it gave me so much background and depth about the dish. I feel as though I could serve it and really talk it up. Though I didn’t try them, the recipes and accompanying articles, for wiener schnitzel and French omelets were also very illuminating. The discussion of the crispy coating on the pork cutlets led me to ponder other deep fried dishes and the general quest for getting the perfect fry. Josh DeChellis had a short-lived but tasty restaurant on Carmine Street a few years ago that dealt whole-heartedly with this issue. His fixation was even in the name: BarFry. I have found fantastically fried asparagus at Barbone in the East Village and impeccable onion rings at Walter Foods on Grand Street in Williamsburg. The omelet article references Julia Childs’ 11-page doctrine on French omelets and then gives a much easier method. Noted, and next time I will try.
Most of all, I love the Quick Tips page. This is a spread of little kitchen tips, submitted by cooks across the country. It is, hands down, the most useful collection of information out there. Ideas on how to keep an avocado green, how to keep syrup warm, and how to un-lump pudding were in this issue. If you do not have a Culinista cooking your meals, the quick tips are a must read!
In this issue, I read about tandoori chicken and how to make in about a two hour-long process instead of the typical 24. I liked reading the article because it gave me so much background and depth about the dish. I feel as though I could serve it and really talk it up. Though I didn’t try them, the recipes and accompanying articles, for wiener schnitzel and French omelets were also very illuminating. The discussion of the crispy coating on the pork cutlets led me to ponder other deep fried dishes and the general quest for getting the perfect fry. Josh DeChellis had a short-lived but tasty restaurant on Carmine Street a few years ago that dealt whole-heartedly with this issue. His fixation was even in the name: BarFry. I have found fantastically fried asparagus at Barbone in the East Village and impeccable onion rings at Walter Foods on Grand Street in Williamsburg. The omelet article references Julia Childs’ 11-page doctrine on French omelets and then gives a much easier method. Noted, and next time I will try.
Most of all, I love the Quick Tips page. This is a spread of little kitchen tips, submitted by cooks across the country. It is, hands down, the most useful collection of information out there. Ideas on how to keep an avocado green, how to keep syrup warm, and how to un-lump pudding were in this issue. If you do not have a Culinista cooking your meals, the quick tips are a must read!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Ruma-Lahd
“You seem disgraced,” I delivered in the form of a question to my Southern dining companion. We had just taken our first bites of Blue Ribbon’s grilled shrimp remoulade very late on a Saturday night and I could see he was offended. “Where’s the remoulade? I didn’t even know it was there—there was only enough of a dollop to glue the shrimp into position on the plate.” The sauce, which is classically a combo of vinegar, mustard, paprika, horseradish, oil and green onions, was, it seemed, in short supply here at 3am.
We’d come to eat because, just a few days prior, we’d experienced extremely authentic barbequed shrimp at Blue Ribbon Bakery, the restaurants sister spot about which I often extol. The Louisiana boy had honed in on the many Southern-influenced dishes—that I’d mostly missed in all the dining hours I’d racked, opting instead for roasted heads of garlic and steak tartar. We’d wondered what connection the Bromberg brothers had with the South and when we tasted the barbequed shrimp layered atop fluffy saffron rice, we figured it must have been a strong connection.
Apparently not so, we learned after biting into the shrimp remoulade. Not that the New York remoulade was bad, but for the Southerner, it was like a New Yorker getting a slice at Pizza Hut. It’s definitely pizza, but if you grew up around Avenue J, it could be kind of distressing—“this is what they are calling pizza these days?!?!?!” On rare occasions, I can be up for Pizza Hut; but I wouldn’t expect it in celebrated hot spot like Blue Ribbon.
The next day, I took out my River Road Recipes, a cookbook compiled by the Junior League of Baton Rouge. There were a couple variations on the theme, and like I said, the NY remoulade wasn’t bad, it was its usage. Southern shrimp remoulade is supposed to be a dish in which the shellfish are swimming in sauce. This isn’t a secret. Even a remoulade recipe from Gourmet Magazine from August 2004 instructs, after grilling shrimp, to “push shrimp off skewers into rémoulade, then toss to combine well.”
After reading up about this meant-to-be decadent dish, I could see how the Blue Ribbon version was such a hoax. Of course the components were fine—shrimp fresh and spring-y, remoulade tangy and simultaneously creamy—but oh brothers! We needed so much more remoulade!
We’d come to eat because, just a few days prior, we’d experienced extremely authentic barbequed shrimp at Blue Ribbon Bakery, the restaurants sister spot about which I often extol. The Louisiana boy had honed in on the many Southern-influenced dishes—that I’d mostly missed in all the dining hours I’d racked, opting instead for roasted heads of garlic and steak tartar. We’d wondered what connection the Bromberg brothers had with the South and when we tasted the barbequed shrimp layered atop fluffy saffron rice, we figured it must have been a strong connection.
Apparently not so, we learned after biting into the shrimp remoulade. Not that the New York remoulade was bad, but for the Southerner, it was like a New Yorker getting a slice at Pizza Hut. It’s definitely pizza, but if you grew up around Avenue J, it could be kind of distressing—“this is what they are calling pizza these days?!?!?!” On rare occasions, I can be up for Pizza Hut; but I wouldn’t expect it in celebrated hot spot like Blue Ribbon.
The next day, I took out my River Road Recipes, a cookbook compiled by the Junior League of Baton Rouge. There were a couple variations on the theme, and like I said, the NY remoulade wasn’t bad, it was its usage. Southern shrimp remoulade is supposed to be a dish in which the shellfish are swimming in sauce. This isn’t a secret. Even a remoulade recipe from Gourmet Magazine from August 2004 instructs, after grilling shrimp, to “push shrimp off skewers into rémoulade, then toss to combine well.”
After reading up about this meant-to-be decadent dish, I could see how the Blue Ribbon version was such a hoax. Of course the components were fine—shrimp fresh and spring-y, remoulade tangy and simultaneously creamy—but oh brothers! We needed so much more remoulade!
Motorino
The Graham Ave. stop off the L is a heavily Italian neighborhood where homemade pasta on menus is a given. The new place, Motorino, was opened by neighborhood transplant, Mathieu Palombino, who has graced establishments such as BLT Fish and Bouley. He is a bona fide New York chef, not an F.O.B. Italian.
So after reluctantly skipping my customary, Sinatra-tinged pie place—just across the street from this newbie, I tried Motorino. Of course there is always a place in my heart for the neighbors, but for pizza heightened to an art, pizza that foodies will blog and fuss about, pizza found on New York Magazine best pie lists, head to Motorino for an anchovy pie with fior di latte and sprinkled with capers or a margherita DOC bubbly with buffalo mozzarella. It may not be an Italian hand kneading the dough, but he sure fits right in to the hood.
So after reluctantly skipping my customary, Sinatra-tinged pie place—just across the street from this newbie, I tried Motorino. Of course there is always a place in my heart for the neighbors, but for pizza heightened to an art, pizza that foodies will blog and fuss about, pizza found on New York Magazine best pie lists, head to Motorino for an anchovy pie with fior di latte and sprinkled with capers or a margherita DOC bubbly with buffalo mozzarella. It may not be an Italian hand kneading the dough, but he sure fits right in to the hood.
Double Crown
Cuisine and ambience double delight at this newish AvroKo gem on the Bowery. Don’t miss the coconut chicken salad appetizer, which packs a punch into its saucy, peanut-flecked preparation. Yellowtail sashimi is also a must—buttery, thick pieces of fish doused in a sweet and tangy vinaigrette. A pint of prawns is excellent to share—especially if someone at your table will enjoy the crispy flash-fried torsos.
The snapper is a double whammy entrée with its crown of shrimp dumplings. The lamb meatballs introduce Indian flavors that dance on the taste buds. Skip dessert in favor of more cocktails. Go for the cucumber-elderflower or the ginger and spike. You’ll want to linger—the room is a stunning take on East Asian colonialism. Intricate carved wood and latticework are enticingly regal. My visiting French friend asked me after washing his hands, “I can sleep tonight in the bathroom here?”
The snapper is a double whammy entrée with its crown of shrimp dumplings. The lamb meatballs introduce Indian flavors that dance on the taste buds. Skip dessert in favor of more cocktails. Go for the cucumber-elderflower or the ginger and spike. You’ll want to linger—the room is a stunning take on East Asian colonialism. Intricate carved wood and latticework are enticingly regal. My visiting French friend asked me after washing his hands, “I can sleep tonight in the bathroom here?”
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Somewhere between Naïve and Jaded
Since moving to New York in 2002, I’ve adored dining at all types of restaurants. From that great tacqueria near Columbia University to a surprise birthday dinner at Sushi Yasuda, I’d like to think that I’ve enjoyed a varied and diverse sampling of restaurants. Moreover, what makes this an exciting city for chowing down is that it’s constantly in flux. When I first arrived, I was wide-eyed—an ingenue. I was dazzled by every opulent design choice and each dish plated with superfluous garnish. I zealously followed chefs and restaurateurs. I crushed on kitchen staff and got flustered when I’d spot chefs at the greenmarket. And then something changed.
At some point, I started to sense patterns and pick up on formulas that many restaurants and restaurateurs and restaurants “groups” were using. Suddenly, it seemed like I’d seen everything before. AvroKo designed, Petraske cocktails, pork belly, local, sustainable, mâche and really, really thick hot chocolate… it all kinda blended. I was officially jaded. I excitedly moved to Brooklyn from my SoHo loft—my restaurant malaise extending to a general weariness of all of Manhattan.
I took a break from the new, hot places—skipping over Bar Milano, Irving Mill, Del Posto, A Voce, and surely a slew of others whose name and chef and signature dish I purposely did not commit to memory. I started frequenting the family-run restaurants around my apartment: La Locanda, Barosa, Fanny, and Piazzetta, where either the service is always too slow, the lighting is awful, or the decor is dreadful. What they lacked in ambiance, they made up in serious soul or seriously good food like daily, homemade pasta. The owners are there every night and kids from the neighborhood wait the tables.
And then, again, something weird happened—one of those oft written about restaurants opened in my hood, across the street from one of the oldies but goodies. And this new place serves the same thing the old place serves. The difference is that this new place, Motorino, has received a ton of press due to an “accomplished” chef and a well-renovated space. For a while, I refused to go, insisting on my old place across the way for pizza—served by Italians, not a Belgian. But after a few months I caved—I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I just did. I felt left out and started to miss the pomp and production of the silly formula restaurants.
The pizza at Motorino was really good, too. I’ve been back more than a half dozen times. And I realized that, yes, the whole foodie fuss might be ridiculous—pizza wars! who invented foam?! the best chocolate chip cookie!—but so what? The point is, that in New York, there really is a place for all of it. And it’s all pretty fun in its own silly way. You can chose to participate as much or as little as you want, and within that participation, you can decide just how nit-picky you want to be. So in the New Year, I am trying to find a new voice—a voice that’s neither constant ebullience nor forever uninspired, but somewhere in between. I want to enjoy dining out, and if that means sometimes just playing into the restaurateur’s gimmicks, so be it. Heck, I remember my 18th birthday at Tao being ammmmmmmazing!
At some point, I started to sense patterns and pick up on formulas that many restaurants and restaurateurs and restaurants “groups” were using. Suddenly, it seemed like I’d seen everything before. AvroKo designed, Petraske cocktails, pork belly, local, sustainable, mâche and really, really thick hot chocolate… it all kinda blended. I was officially jaded. I excitedly moved to Brooklyn from my SoHo loft—my restaurant malaise extending to a general weariness of all of Manhattan.
I took a break from the new, hot places—skipping over Bar Milano, Irving Mill, Del Posto, A Voce, and surely a slew of others whose name and chef and signature dish I purposely did not commit to memory. I started frequenting the family-run restaurants around my apartment: La Locanda, Barosa, Fanny, and Piazzetta, where either the service is always too slow, the lighting is awful, or the decor is dreadful. What they lacked in ambiance, they made up in serious soul or seriously good food like daily, homemade pasta. The owners are there every night and kids from the neighborhood wait the tables.
And then, again, something weird happened—one of those oft written about restaurants opened in my hood, across the street from one of the oldies but goodies. And this new place serves the same thing the old place serves. The difference is that this new place, Motorino, has received a ton of press due to an “accomplished” chef and a well-renovated space. For a while, I refused to go, insisting on my old place across the way for pizza—served by Italians, not a Belgian. But after a few months I caved—I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I just did. I felt left out and started to miss the pomp and production of the silly formula restaurants.
The pizza at Motorino was really good, too. I’ve been back more than a half dozen times. And I realized that, yes, the whole foodie fuss might be ridiculous—pizza wars! who invented foam?! the best chocolate chip cookie!—but so what? The point is, that in New York, there really is a place for all of it. And it’s all pretty fun in its own silly way. You can chose to participate as much or as little as you want, and within that participation, you can decide just how nit-picky you want to be. So in the New Year, I am trying to find a new voice—a voice that’s neither constant ebullience nor forever uninspired, but somewhere in between. I want to enjoy dining out, and if that means sometimes just playing into the restaurateur’s gimmicks, so be it. Heck, I remember my 18th birthday at Tao being ammmmmmmazing!
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