Tag: rabbit

Rabbit, Peaches, and Some Great Wines: Theodore Rex is One of Houston’s Best

Theodore Rex has, for the past year or so, been one of my favorite restaurants in Houston, and a recent evening spent there resulted in a firm reinforcement of that opinion. It is, in my estimation, one of the five best restaurants in that city.

I’ve dined at Theodore Rex six or so times, and each evening has been full of myriad flavors and textures that are just right, from a dish of poached peaches coddled in a rich broth with fresh herbs — a savory/slightly sweet beauty of a course — to handmade farfalle in a rich sauce vin jaune with chard and braised rabbit (typing that made me want to have this dish now) or, one of my top dishes of the past several years, beans and rice (but not your average bowl of beans and rice, to be sure).

Beans and rice
Tomatoes and bread extraordinaire

On that recent evening, Angela and I sat at the chef’s counter at Theodore Rex and shared a few dishes (we skipped the beans and rice — “Carolina Gold rice and butterbeans cooked in soft butter with crushed garden leaves,” but will have them on our next visit — ) including the famous tomato toast:

As I wrote about that toast last year … another small and epiphanic item that you will crave often after experiencing its wonder. It combines rye pain de mie, bright green herbs and onions, and some of the most delicately delicious tomatoes you’ve tasted. (Many pounds of the fruit are cooked down into a rich fondant, which is spread on the toast and then topped with cherry tomatoes from Finca Tres Robles.)

The Dutch Crunch Roll
Ham and cream and hot sauce

We had the Dutch Crunch roll, which came with split butter (butter mixed with just enough crème fraîche to split it without completely separating it — Justin Yu, the man behind the restaurant, says, “it has a fun texture and I like the sourness.” I agree) and ham and Mexican oregano and Cherry Bomb pepper sauce. We had those peaches in stock and herbs — the fruit was mighty savory, while still tart — and that ethereal housemade farfalle with rabbit, the vin jaune sauce one of the best I’ve tasted.

Peaches and herbs
Farfalle and rabbit
An Abariño of distinction
From France, with much love.

To end the evening, instead of my usual dessert choice, Yu’s take on the Paris Brest, we went with a moist and rich strawberry cake. I missed the Paris Brest only a little.

A fine cake of strawberries

The great wines? An Albariño to start, followed by a selection from Charles Hours. Yes, Theodore Rex has a wine list I adore.

Talking (Wisconsin) Squirrel and Rabbit

And these two (or creatures similar to them) ended up in a giant cast-iron skillet).

And these two (or creatures similar to them) ended up in a giant cast-iron skillet in Wisconsin.

On Labor Day I spent some time with my friend Mike Pitzen and his family – Krista and Holt – here in Houston. We smoked some briskets and grilled some corn and a skirt steak I had marinated overnight. I made a Bloody Mary or two and we sat outside by the wood and charcoal and talked about food and cooking and family. I had seen a squirrel in the backyard, and suggested that we could use Holt’s toy bow and arrow to shoot it, after which we could grill it. (Holt is a 7-year-old vegetarian, having decided to pursue that route after viewing Charlotte’s Web.) The precocious young man promptly relieved me of the weapon and took it inside.

My plan, however, had aroused a memory from Mike’s culinary past, of a dish his mother cooked whenever a number of rabbits and squirrel had been shot at their Wisconsin home. Mike would skin and gut them, and his mother would portion the animals and brine them overnight in a solution of buttermilk and salt and pepper. The next day she’d cook them in oil or lard in one of her many cast-iron skillets (many of which Mike has today), adding yellow onion slices and apple pieces near the end of the process. A lid would then be placed on the skillet and the steam and heat would turn the meat and the fruit and vegetables into a savory dinner.

They are cute, and they taste good.

They are cute, and they taste good.

They have been known to attack ...

They have been known to attack …

Holt had by then returned to our company, fresh from hiding his bow and arrow, so we finished our cooking recollection and turned to politics. That conversation was much less appetizing, and it nourished us not at all.

On a Labor Day grill in Houston.

On a Labor Day grill in Houston.

 

Plates of the day: A Gem Named Giacomo’s

There are a few restaurants in Houston to which I return again and again, because they are serving food that is good, and honest, and selling it at prices that are fair. One is named Giacomo’s, and it is owned by Lynette Hawkins, who has been in the business a long time and knows what she is doing.

I had lunch at Giacomo’s today with a friend who had never been there, and I knew that he would love the Swiss chard ravioli; it is one of my favorite dishes in Houston, and reminds me of the malfatti (also with Swiss chard and ricotta) served at Al Di La. (I ate those malfatti on a weekly basis at that little place in Park Slope, followed by rabbit and polenta.)

Today I ordered something I had never had at Giacomo’s: mozzarella in carrozza. The menu describes them as “little fried mozzarella sandwiches, anchovy caper sauce.” Two small sandwiches come in a bowl, the bread caressed by a delicate and very authentic sauce, a sauce so good that I would surely have no problem drinking a cup of it. The bread is slightly crisp, and though I wish it and the cheese had been a bit warmer, I can’t wait to introduce these things to Angela.

These little things and their anchovy-caper sauce are now at the top of my Houston food list.

These little things and their anchovy-caper sauce are now at the top of my Houston food list.

If you like cheese, anchovies, capers and crisp bread, order this.

If you like cheese, anchovies, capers and crisp bread, order this.

I convinced Jack to try the tortelli di bietola (ravioli stuffed with Swiss chard, ricotta, goat cheese, sage butter sauce). Again, this is one of my favorite dishes in Houston; I have eaten a lot of pasta around the world, and this plate at Giacomo’s stands up to the best of them. Paper-thin ravioli filled with a mixture of cheeses and chard, nestled on a plate in a rich sauce. It is perfection, simplicity at its best. Jack concurred.

My favorite pasta dish in Houston.

My favorite pasta dish in Houston.

While Jack was discovering Hawkins’ ravioli, I began eating my gnocchi. I have had this dish before at Giacomo’s, and this time it seemed especially good, mainly because the mushrooms possessed a pronounced funky, earthy flavor, something missing during a previous visit. The sauce – cream and gorgonzola – is always wonderful, not too thick, not too thin, and the potato gnocchi are obviously made and cooked by someone who understands the process.

Gnocchi di funghi at Giacomo's is rich, decadent and earthy, full of funky cremini mushrooms.

Gnocchi di funghi at Giacomo’s is rich, decadent and earthy, full of funky cremini mushrooms.

Giacomo’s is a gem, really. No pretension, congenial and adept staff, and an owner who knows her stuff. Plus, they sell wine by the quartino and have a good and value-priced list. Haven’t been? Correct that oversight soon.

There’s Some Great (Vietnamese) Rabbit in Pearland, Texas

Pearland is a small place in south Texas, situated off of 45 South 30 miles or so from Galveston. If you find yourself near there, schedule some time for Thanh Phuong and order the TP Special Rolls (Nem Nướng Cuốn) and the deep-fried rabbit.

The rolls are full of grilled pork – and it is crisp and rich and deep in flavor – and mint and a few other vegetables, but the pork stars.

And the rabbit. Several years ago while in Florence I happened across a restaurant and delighted in a perfect plate of rabbit, and since then have looked for another example. I found it in Pearland.

The rabbit at Thanh Phuong reminded me of a dish I loved in Florence several years ago.

The rabbit at Thanh Phuong reminded me of a dish I loved in Florence several years ago. 

The pieces of rabbit were dipped in a light, slightly sweet batter, a batter that included sesame seeds. It was fried along with garlic and a few pieces of ginger, whose taste was barely noticeable but proper, and plated with onions and peppers and a very pleasant acidic sauce.
Angela and I are already planning a return trip.

An Italian winter’s tale of grace

I was in Florence for a few days, a stopover of sorts before I traveled on to Umbria. I was staying at the Hotel Hermes, hosted by Patricia Baglioni, the wonderful woman who owns the small hotel. She steered me toward her favorite places in the city, restaurants and otherwise, and told me some fine stories about her childhood in Texas and Mexico and coming to Italy to study and falling in love with an Italian man whose family owned hotels. He sadly died a while ago, too young, but not before they had a marriage full of adventure and travel and great meals. (Her husband was a hunter, and she showed me some photographs of him with wild boar and pheasant and deer, all of which ended up on their family table.)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes, and a guest. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

It was in the middle of December, and Florence was beautiful. Florence is always beautiful. It was to be my final day in the city, and the next morning, the 17th, I would depart for Umbria and Brigolante, the agriturismo near Assisi that Angela and I would use as home base for the winter holiday season. I went for a walk along the river after breakfast, over the bridge and up toward the Uffizi. For lunch I had coniglio fritto at Al Tranvai, a small place I had read about in Saveur. If you are in Florence you must go, and please order the rabbit. I spent the afternoon wandering, no destination in mind, and ended up at a bar run by an American, a guy who had fallen in love with the city when he and his girlfriend had passed through two years earlier. He told me she had left him to return to California. He thought about her rarely, he said.

Rabbit and zucchini at Tranvai.

Rabbit and zucchini at Al Tranvai.

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the bottom right corner of image and you'll see a perfect piece of beef.)

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the middle-right section of the image and you’ll see a perfect piece of beef.)

For dinner I went to Trattoria Sostanza, and, of course, had a bistecca. (I will revisit Sostanza, both corporeally and on Mise en place. It is deserving of that, and more.) Communal tables, two seatings nightly, excellent food. I had a view of the kitchen, and my steak was cooked semi-vertically on a grate over charcoal. It is in the top 5 on my best steak list. After dinner I walked along the river and admired the duomo, thinking of Dante and Beatrice.

I was excited about my drive to Umbria, and after a late breakfast at the hotel headed to the rental agency to pick up my Fiat. As I walked past the window of the German shoemaker snowflakes began to fall, wispy flakes that melted as soon as they landed on the street. I ambled along, not quite wanting to leave Florence behind. I stopped at several food stores along the way, and decided to have an early lunch: fried squash blossoms, a few slices of ham, and a half-bottle of Montepulciano.

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

While I sat eating the blossoms at a table covered in butcher paper the snow grew heavier, the sky darker. The thin slices of ham melted on my tongue and the red wine warmed me. People rushed along the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. I bought a few tins of pâté and some sausages and cheese for the trip, then continued on to the rental agency.

The car, a white Fiat 500, was small, but just big enough for Angela and me and a bag or two. I drove the short distance back to the hotel and loaded my things, bid farewell to Patricia, then took off toward the river. It was snowing heavily, but I had no worries, and entered the traffic stream, the radio playing a Count Basie number.

Five minutes later it all came down. Snow mixed with ice, heavy. The little car’s windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the traffic came to a standstill. I endured at least an hour moving at a crawl. We were headed up an incline, toward the autostrada, out of the city, but nature had something else in mind: by the dozens, cars began pulling to the side of the road, unable to make it up the hill. The snow grew heavier, and I thought to myself that I was glad I had brought my hiking boots. I parked my car in the best location possible, its nose still jutting into the street. I, along with other drivers and passengers, emerged into the icy early afternoon.

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I began walking down the narrow, icy street and saw cars parked on both sides of it, two wheels on the sidewalks, two on the one-way thoroughfare. The neighborhood in which I interrupted my journey was just outside one of Florence’s old gates, and as I walked down the hill toward the massive structure I began thinking about where I would spend the night. My first thought was to phone Patricia at the hotel, but when I took my iPhone from my pocket I discovered I had no credit remaining. I kept walking and soon saw a restaurant to my right; it was closed, but lights were on in the dining room and I saw a man in a chef’s jacket standing behind the bar. I knocked on the door and he motioned for me to come in; he was on the phone, and pointed to a bar stool. As I approached him I noticed a group of people sitting at a large table at the rear of the restaurant and realized I had interrupted family meal.

A family meal in a warm place.

A family meal in a warm place.

I sat and looked at the wines on the bar, and a minute or so later my host put down the phone. We shook hands, and he said his name was Paulo. He mentioned the ice storm, and I told him I was stuck, had been forced to park my car on the side of the road, and that I was looking for a place to spend the night. I asked if I might use his phone, but he had another idea: he began calling friends who lived in the neighborhood, asking if anyone could put me up for the evening. I tried to stop him, to tell him I would call back to the hotel in which I had been staying, but he ignored me. After a few calls he put the phone down and smiled, offering me a glass of wine. “Don’t worry, a friend has a bed and breakfast one street over, and he has a free room. He told me I could have it for 35 euros.” Perfect, I said, and we toasted the weather.

He then asked me to follow him, and we walked toward the kitchen, stopping at the occupied table. He introduced me to his father and mother, and some of his employees. His father, who had the year before handed over the kitchen to Paulo, had worked in a restaurant since he was 17, and had opened his own, this one, 15 years earlier. I shook hands with everyone and admired the food on their plates, refusing an offer to eat with them … they had already done enough.

Paulo wrote an address down, then told me that I should come back that evening for dinner. How could I refuse? I was reluctant to leave the warm restaurant, but wanted to find my room before it grew dark. I walked back up the hill to the car and retrieved a few things, then followed the directions Paulo had given me.

It was indeed one street over, one snow-filled street. I saw the number and rang the bell, and was met by a man in his 20’s, who welcomed me in and showed me the room. It was wonderfully decorated, warm, large bed, tasteful fabrics – dark green and an interesting shade of red. He told me his mother and he owned the building and that they were glad to do a favor for Paulo. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I thanked him and walked him to the door. I opened my Mac and found an email from Patricia; she wanted to make sure I was safe, and I told her my tale. She laughed and made me promise to stay at Hotel Hermes when I next was in Florence.

I put my bag away and saw a bottle of wine on the table near the window, poured myself a glass, and sat down, watching the snow fall. (The image of that snow at that moment is in my mind still, and when I wish to evoke a feeling of peace I can conjure it up. I see the snow fall, watch it accumulate on the balcony rail outside the window, silently.)

My room with a snowy view.

My room with a snowy view.

After enjoying another glass of wine I showered, then traced my steps back to the restaurant, which was full of people. Paulo had reserved a place for me at a table along the wall, and I sat, enjoying a perfect view of the entire room. The barstools were occupied, and all but one table was full. I ordered some prosecco and looked at the menu, my eyes landing immediately on wild boar, one of my favorite proteins. They were serving Cinghiale al Ginepro, and I ordered it. A leg of a fine animal ­– Paulo told me they had marinated it in red wine – that had once roamed woods not far from Florence. I was deciding on a first course when a waiter came out with a bowl of pasta and set it before me. I looked down and saw truffles. Tartufo. White truffles, alba madonna. Shaved truffles on top of thin, wide noodles, in a rich sauce that tasted of olive oil and shallots. I lowered my head over the dish and inhaled, and tears came to my eyes.

Those tears were not caused by sadness or tiredness, but were provoked by a profound sense of gratitude, a feeling that was almost holy, sacred. I was sitting among strangers, in a warm restaurant whose chef had housed and fed me. That morning I had checked out of a hotel whose owner, concerned about me in the ice storm, called to make sure I was safe, a woman with whom I still correspond and will surely see next time I am in Firenze. I drank and I ate, and thought of nothing else.

Yes, the truffles and pasta were sublime, as truffles almost always are. The wild boar I remember still: gamy (as I like it), rich, perfectly cooked. But on that evening in Florence, as the snow fell and I sat at an unfamiliar though perfect table surrounded by happy people talking and enjoying their food and wine, I was the recipient of kindnesses that outshone even the finest truffle.

Young palates, full of taste

When I eat food that I really love I am transported back to happy days of my childhood. Biscuits, good biscuits, take me to Holly Pond, Alabama, and my Aunt Shelby’s table, for she made the best biscuits I have ever tasted. She also introduced me to Golden Eagle table syrup, and taught me how to mix it with the proper amount of butter to create a spread that made her biscuits even better. Fried chicken finds me in Savannah, where my grandmother Ida is cooking, for 15 people, some of the best fowl to be found in the Deep South. Cornish hens belong in my memory to my mother, who is also a fine baker. My passion for food began at an early age, and I thank those three women on a regular basis.

After a hunt in Georgia

After a hunt in Georgia

Ice fishing in Alaska

Ice fishing in Alaska

I have been spending some time with my sister Julie and her family, and cooking with them. She has two children. Ian is 8 and Anna is 3, and they both love to eat. And, more importantly to me, they are adventurous eaters. Their parents have never told them “You won’t like this” or “That’s too hot for you” or “That doesn’t taste good,” things I’ve too often heard other people tell their children.

A family tours Brooklyn: my parents, James and Sandra, and my sister Julie, her son, Ian, and husband Mark

A family tours Brooklyn: my parents, James and Sandra, and my sister Julie, her son, Ian, and her husband, Mark

Ian tastes his first NYC hotdog

Ian tastes his first NYC hotdog

Julie and Mark and Ian, along with my parents, visited me in New York in 2007, when Ian was 2, and I recall a meal at Applewood in Brooklyn, one of my favorite restaurants in that borough. The owners are friends, and we were treated to a round of small plates from the kitchen by Lauren, including some house-made fromage de tête, which Ian loved. My father, who as a child was told too many times “you won’t like that,” left his share of the fromage de tête for Ian.

Fish tacos; a dish for all ages

Fish tacos, a dish for all ages

Ian's pasta

Ian’s pasta

Ian's pasta, with cheese and basil and tomatoes

Ian’s pasta plated, with cheese and basil and tomatoes

Anna with what is left of a plate of tiramisu

Anna with what is left of a plate of tiramisu

I’ve cooked scallops for Ian and Anna, and Mahi-mahi tacos. Ian and I make fresh pasta together – he has developed a great sense of proportion when it comes to flour and water. They both love my spicy shrimp and pasta, and devour the tiramisu I make. I love cooking for them and teaching them about the ingredients and methods.

I trust that when they are adults, on a culinary tour of France (with or without me), they will be sitting at a table in that fine place run by familie Bras and taste something – perhaps a small piece of venison, or a sublime La Croisicaise – that draws their minds and palates back to another table, one in Florida, one around which they gathered with adults who knew that a love of good, honest food was necessary to a life lived well, and that a childhood without taste was a poor one indeed.

Ian and I with a red

Ian and uncle with a Syrah

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