Category: Uncategorized (Page 16 of 19)

What a Difference a Year Makes (Especially a Year Spent in France and Spain and Germany and Hong Kong and India and Tokyo and … )

Voice Media Group's Houston Press has a new managing editor.

Voice Media Group’s Houston Press has a new managing editor.

I’m back in the US of A, after being abroad since February of 2008. I left the deserts of the UAE in July 2012 and landed in Frankfurt, the first stop on my yearlong work and experience tour, which took me to great kitchens in MannheimSan Sebastián and Paris, wherein I met some excellent cooks and a few inspiring – and inspired – chefs. (More on that later.) My only regret? That I was unable to spend much more time in those kitchens with those people working with that food.

Sojourns in Kaiserslautern, Barcelona, Girona, Marly-le-Roi, Paris, Gujarat, Hong Kong and Tokyo, and travels by automobile through Provence and Alsace and Montreux and France and Kutch and many other beautiful and welcoming locales, gave me beauty and rest, and I encountered individuals who told me their stories and showed kindness to a stranger, and received it in return. Angela and I ate and drank and saw sights amazing and funny in Paris and India and Louisville (at the Derby), and we shared laughs with some wonderful people in North Carolina during a weekend reunion with high school classmates of mine from Germany. Beth and her family hosted us, and we roasted a suckling pig and drank some good wines and beers and continued a long and priceless relationship.

The year also allowed me to spend time with a few great friends, including Holger and Gudrun and Tim and Max, Dean and Julie, Xavier and Charlotte and Manon, Hector and Eugenie. And I was able to enjoy a month or so with my parents and my sister Julie and her family in  Florida, a time that included joy and sadness, as we bid farewell to Ida, my grandmother, in whose Savannah kitchen I first began to discover that food existed for more – much more – than merely satisfying hunger.

The journey continues … Angela was offered a great position in Houston, so I began looking for a job there, hoping to combine my love of cooking and culinary knowledge with my background in journalism. I succeeded, and am now the managing editor at the Houston Press, a Voice Media Group publication, where I also oversee food and restaurant coverage. I am enjoying getting to know the sprawling, eclectic, and sometimes maddening space that is the Houston food world, and the people who make it happen.

More to come.

Dining on rabbit and lamb with Chris Stanton

I’m in Houston, and I’m eating a lot, immersing myself into this sprawling city’s culinary offerings. Angela and I have dined at several places recently, and I have been solo at some others. With one exception – Triniti – the food has been good, some of it very good, including an excellent snapper at Reef and some wonderful Thai (including a soft shell crab) in the waterside town of Seabrook, south of Houston toward Galveston. Angela especially loved her scallop and shrimp curry there, and the evening ended up at the bar with two of the town’s finest, one of who gave us his recommendations, which included a sushi place in Houston.

Yesterday for lunch I had tacos at Tacos A Go-Go … pork and chicken guisado (stewed). Perfect bites, long, slow cooking, corn tortillas. All for $4.00. Last night Chris Stanton, a friend and former colleague of mine from the Abu Dhabi and Dubai days, and I shared a table at Provisions, and the meal began with Bone Marrow Brioche/Tomato Jam/sheep’s cheese, followed by Ham O’ Day (a prosciutto from America’s Midwest).

Provisions' Ham 'O Day

Provisions’ Ham ‘O Day

I would have liked more marrow and marrow taste in the bread pairing, an opinion that Chris shared, and the tomato jam was a tad too sweet, but the cheese was excellent – a bit crumbly, soft mouth feel, slightly creamy yet pungent. The ham, which came atop a light mustard sauce, imparted a salty taste at the back of the palate, which at first Chris and I did not like. But then a funkiness set in, and that made us hunger for more. We agreed that the curing was carried out well, and we were happy.

We were drinking a 2008 Bodegas Aster Crianza, and the ham’s funkiness enhanced its taste. At $32 a bottle it is one of the least expensive wines on Provisions’ list, and is a good value.

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

To the lamb. And to Korea, because that’s the first thing my brain thought of when I put one of the ribs in my mouth. They were crisp on the outside, and fairly tender meat was underneath. Unfortunately they were overly sweet. We tasted plum and brown sugar, and I would swear that some molasses was in the mix. We wanted less sugar, richer meat. But that did not stop us from finishing the dish. (We turned our attention to the paté before we finished the ribs, and when we returned to them they had cooled off, which enhanced their taste. They were better close to cold.)

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

A first bite of the rabbit paté told us that, while excellent, it should never be ordered with the lamb ribs. Pea tendrils graced the top of the rabbit, and a bite of that dish, followed by a taste of the ribs, took us from the freshness of spring to a brisk and smoky autumn evening. Too jarring, too discordant. Both great plates, but if they eloped their romance would never last.

How many people does it take to make pasta?

How many people does it take to make pasta?

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris and I shared an apartment in Abu Dhabi in 2008, and when I first met him I considered myself very fortunate, because he loves food, and he loves to cook. And he is a good cook, intuitive. We teamed up well in our kitchen, and produced some great plates together, including a salmon tartare cone (thank you, Thomas Keller) and, with the help of his parents, a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for 14.

During our dinner at Provisions Chris asked me as we were eating the ham how much I knew about curing meat, and told me that a visit to the Staten Island home of a friend of his father’s marked the beginning of his passion for food. Chris was 8, and they made fresh pasta and sliced some homemade prosciutto and drank some wine made by a grandfather from Italy. Chris showed me a photo of the salumeria in that Staten Island home, and I share it with you. (Please notice the crucifix at the upper left of this photo. It is indeed blessed meat.)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

I replied that I knew a lot about the process of aging and curing, but other than dry-aging a steak I have never had the opportunity nor time to do it. That is going to change, however, and Chris and I are making plans to create a salumeria of our own, so stay tuned.

Triniti fails, on two counts

I’ve been, for the past few weeks, throwing myself into Houston, into restaurants and museums and food markets, looking for the good stuff, the places to which I’ll return for the things I need for sustenance and inspiration, my fixes.

Last night, after a screening of Blue Jasmine (my Woody fix), Angela and I drove to Triniti, about which I had read a few good things, for a food fix. The restaurant looks perfect, all light wood and subdued illumination in the right places. A low exposed-concrete wall separates the open kitchen from the main dining area – a design element I found particularly satisfying.

But the food. Disappointing. Except for Angela’s pea soup, served wonderfully chilled, the rest of the plates were lacking in taste and technique. For $31, I expect beans properly cooked, faro that is not dry, and pork that is seasoned. (My dish on the menu: pork chop – parsnip puree, collection of summer beans, heart, faro, plum sauce.) A cook must show confidence in his use of salt. Whoever put his (or her) mind and hand to my pork seems to have none. The beans in the bean and faro mixture were hard, and if anyone in that gorgeous kitchen tasted those beans and still allowed them to enter the dining room on a plate, he or she should be assigned a bean-cooking class, for at least a week.

To Angela’s plate of snapper (on the menu as “Snapper – artichoke, olive, tomato fondue, white bean puree, fried oyster). It was, in her words, a poorly deconstructed version of the description, with each of the ingredients in a clump on the plate. The tomato fondue was overly tart and bitter, and the sole olive on the plate small and lonely and dry. It was as if the cook cared more about the “art” of the plate than she did about the taste of the ingredients. The fish was moist, but it lacked the bite of freshness, and the $29 plate was disappointing overall, especially coming after the excellent soup. The fried oyster was crisp, the interior bland, as if all the salt and ocean had been drained from the bivalve.

Art over taste. Plate design over cooking technique. I have been noticing this more and more, artfully designed plates that ultimately disappoint when one disturbs the masterpiece by eating it. Joyce had to master the language by writing Dubliners before he could move on to Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. I appreciate beautiful plates, food artfully arranged with passion and playfulness, but if the food art disappoints on the palate, the art is a contrivance, worth nothing.

It was a Sunday evening, so perhaps that had something to do with the food, and the service. Yes, in addition to the lacking food, the service was a bit slipshod. When my pork dish was delivered I had to wait five minutes for a knife and fork. When our dessert was placed on the table, the waiter overlooked the fact that we had no cutlery. Minor issues, yes, but restaurants of this caliber, or restaurants that aspire to be in this caliber and charge $48 for a lamb dish, must also aspire to perfect service, service that is so amazing as to be invisible. Nothing should disturb the guest’s relationship with the food. This service did.

I am going to visit Triniti again, on a Wednesday or Friday. I am certain it does better than it did on this evening of our first visit.

A Corkycue weekend in Texas Hill Country

Texas Hill Country. Beef and pork, brisket and ribs. Undulating landscape, green and brown, and blue skies full of cotton-white clouds. A van full of people hailing mostly from Texas, with some Canadians, a Colombian, and me thrown in. Political leanings vary, though Democrats (Liberals) outnumber those of less lofty persuasion, and when the conversation turns to the Trayvon Martin/Zimmerman trial and women’s reproductive rights the van suddenly becomes a rolling (and roiling) marketplace of ideas.

But we are here for barbecue, not debate. (Unless it’s debate about the meat.) Texas barbecue. It’s Colby’s birthday weekend, and a dozen or so of his friends have gathered in Austin for a Man Up Barbecue tour, which will also take in a few wineries.

A room fit for barbecue aficionados. ( (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

A room fit for barbecue aficionados. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

Muted colors and tranquil paths welcome guests to the hotel. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

Muted colors and tranquil paths welcome guests to the hotel. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

A walkway at Hotel San Jose is bathed in sunlight.  (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

A walkway at Hotel San José is bathed in sunlight. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

We gather on Friday afternoon at the Hotel San José, a great little place to stay on Congress Avenue, complete with a small concrete swimming pool, excellent music (Gram Parsons, Buck Owens, Emmylou Harris, Jimi Hendrix) and comfortable rooms. Some might find it a bit pretentious, and the average guest does try diligently to exhibit the proper sense of cool, but the beer and cocktail list is more than ample and the customer service friendly and professional.

Colby had arranged a dinner that evening at Parkside Restaurant, so we get two cabs to take us to the location, a few miles away. Sweetbreads, heirloom tomato salad with compressed watermelon, seared sea scallops, great cocktails. I differed with the sweetbreads: They were too chewy, and I will venture to say that the cook had not prepared too many sweetbreads before he plated mine, but it was not a wasted evening, because the rest of the food, including oysters, was more than passable.

All was well on this first night of the weekend Birthday Bash, but that was soon to change. We left the restaurant and hailed cabs, and as I slid into the back seat I heard a yell and turned to see Angela fall with a thud: She had stepped off of the curb and had not counted on a gutter with a long and steep downward grade. Sprained ankle was the diagnosis. We sped back to the hotel and bandaged and iced her ankle, which was swelling rapidly. (Thanks to the ministrations of Dr. Catalina Sanchez Hanson, Angela was well on the way to recovery later that evening.)

Angela sits at the tasting bar after an unfortunate fall in Austin.

Angela sits at the tasting bar after an unfortunate fall in Austin.

The next morning we assembled outside the hotel, coffee (and in some cases, beer) in hand, ready for the van and the ride to  barbecue. I carried Angela piggyback-style down the stairs of the hotel and we were on our way. (That was the first stage of Angela’s assisted tour … a few of us took turns conveying her to and from the venues, which included a fairgrounds, where we wagered on some horses, and where one of us turned a $15 bet into $198, a peach store run by a family of farmers, and a general store/liquor emporium where we sampled some tequila, wine and beer.)

A few hours at the races: Cal's lucky ticket. (Photo courtesy of Cal Lacasse)

A few hours at the races: Cal’s lucky ticket. (Photo courtesy of Cal Lacasse)

A historic spot, full of beer, wine and tequila and bourbon. (Photo courtesy of Colby Walton)

A historic spot, full of beer, wine and tequila and bourbon. (Photo courtesy of Colby Walton)

To the barbecue, the main reason for the weekend. For lunch we stopped at Cranky Frank’s, which is in Fredericksburg. It serves up brisket and ribs and chicken in a small restaurant with eight tables in the dining room and a long picnic table outside. The pit is in an adjacent building, and the smoke that greeted us as we exited the van was a great introduction to the day’s dining. Drew Thornley, one of the men behind Man Up Barbecue, arranged our orders, so all we had to do was wait patiently outside at the table for our meat. (Some of us had already procured beer from Cranky’s, so the wait was more than satisfying.) The brisket here was the highlight, at least to my taste, but a few of my fellow travelers loved the sausage. Sunny day, a crowd gathered around a picnic table, and smoky meat … nothing else is necessary.

Colby brings the brisket.

Colby brings the brisket.

Our meat awaits, and it was good.

Our meat awaits, and it was good.

Slicing the brisket at Cranky Frank's: Great things come to those who wait.

Slicing the brisket at Cranky Frank’s: Great things come to those who wait.

The birthday boy shows his appreciation of Cranky Frank's ribs. (Photo courtesy of Ronnie Packard)

The birthday boy shows the rest of us how to eat ribs at Cranky Frank’s. (Photo courtesy of Ronnie Packard)

We loaded ourselves back into the van and headed for our next stop, the Stone House Vineyard. It was the second winery, and the best one … mainly because we had a rather unfortunate and rude encounter with the owner of the first winery we visited. Seems that she expected those of our party who were responsibly imbibing beer to see the invisible sign stating that beer was not permitted on the premises. Instead of politely asking her guests (and prospective customers) to finish our beer in the van, she demonstrated considerable ire, in the process transforming our visit to her establishment into something odious and uncomfortable. Needles to say, I purchased none of her wines.

Back at Stone House Vineyard, we gathered at a long table in the elegant yet rustic tasting room and sampled five or six bottles of wines made in South Africa. All decent, all certainly drinkable, if unremarkable. Stone House does does produce one wine made from Norton grapes grown on its property, and it was certainly worth the taste.

Bottles, friends, sunny afternoon, all at the Stone House Winery. (Photo courtesy Colby Walton)

Bottles, friends, sunny afternoon, all at the Stone House tasting room. (Photo courtesy Colby Walton)

We had before us the highlight of the day, though those of us who had never darkened the doors of Opie’s Barbecue were blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead. As dinner time approached we rolled into the parking lot of Opie’s, having been told what was expected of us, which was to walk through the doors and immediately turn our attentions to the giant black metal container into which meats of all sorts were being loaded, including sausages containing cheese and jalapeño peppers, beef ribs (both spare and short), chicken, and brisket. Oh, that brisket … Kristin and Todd Ashmore have their hands on one talented pit master.

Drew had arranged Opie’s feast, and all we had to do was tell the meat attendant what we wanted and watch him arrange our selections in a tray. That, and graciously accept the cans of Fireman’s #4 and Tecate that were offered. Angela and I chose a little of everything except the chicken, and our barbecue then disappeared into the kitchen, where it was trimmed and wrapped in butcher paper. We walked over to the long counter and waited for our dinner, all the while admiring the desserts – banana pudding, carrot cake, peach cobbler – and taking in the crowd. The place is huge, and it was full of hungry people.

Look at that char: Brisket at Opie's.

Look at that char: Brisket at Opie’s.

Food with a built-in handle: Ribs at Opie's.

Food with a built-in handle: Ribs at Opie’s.

We again found ourselves at a long table, and set to unwrapping our bounty. The brisket was my first choice, and it was nearly perfect: beautiful char, a slight spicy undertone, wonderful bouquet – think espresso and very faint vinegar. My only criticism was that it was a bit too moist, the tendrils of the meat approached something I could term “soft,” as opposed to tender. Minor quibble, however. This brisket was beautiful, and as I chewed I looked around the table at my happy companions and we silently agreed that all was well. Drew was high on the sweet-and-spicy baby back ribs, which were quite good, and I was enjoying the tater tot casserole and spicy creamed corn. We ate well, had some leftovers, which I wrapped anew and the next morning gave to the room attendant at the hotel, who said he had not been to Opie’s recently and would look forward to a great lunch. The carrot cake and banana pudding ended the meal, and we paraded out to the van, ready for the ride back to Austin and the comfort of the San José.

Colby is lucky to have such good friends, and his friends are fortunate that Colby likes to eat good food and is an enthusiastic party planner. As for me, I am planning to take another Man Up Barbecue tour, and If you like good food and good people, you could do much worse than doing the same.

My kind of third party.

My kind of third party.

The Peacemaker

New Orleans was treating me well. I had arrived the night before, driving up from South Florida, and my first stop, directly off of the interstate, was Pêche, a new destination – it opened about three months ago – in the Link Restaurant Group, the people behind Herbsaint and several other places. If you are in New Orleans and want some great seafood, take a drive to Magazine Street and sit for a while in Pêche.

Looking for Walker Percy: The courtyard of Creole Gardens, a bed and breakfast in New Orleans.

Looking for Walker Percy: The courtyard of Creole Gardens, a bed and breakfast in New Orleans.

After oysters, smoked tuna dip, raw tuna with fennel, corn and tomato water, and excellent grouper collars, I drove the short distance to my inn, the Creole Gardens, and settled in for the evening, thinking of tomorrow’s meals. A comfortably shabby courtyard, complete with banana trees hanging with bunches of the fruit and a gurgling fountain, and a small but serviceable room, greeted me.

Up early the next morning, breakfast at the inn – grits, two eggs over easy and bacon. My mind wasn’t really on that food, though, because I was thinking about how long it would be before I could have lunch. You see, my plan was all about the po’ boy; specifically, one with the name “Peacemaker” made at Mahony’s, a restaurant I knew of and one of the meals recommended to me by John T. Edge when I asked him “If you could eat three meals in New Orleans now, where would you go?” (Pêche and Brigtsen’s were the other two.) I had read about the Peacemaker a few years ago, and that, along with John’s input, resulted in Mahony’s getting my business in a po’ boy-rich city.

You must go here when in New Orleans.

This sign guides you to one fine  po’ boy.

I made the right decision. Mahony’s is also on Magazine, in a non-descript house with a welcoming front porch that allows for outdoor dining. Wooden flooring, SEC football posters on the walls, condiments stored in six-pack containers. You place your order at the end of the bar, give your name, and wait for the goodness to come out of the kitchen. The Peacemaker is “market price,” owing to the fried oysters that are key to its deliciousness. It comes in large and small, and I ordered a small, knowing dinner was still on the agenda. Pickles and mayo, please, hold the lettuce and tomato. I took a seat, looking forward to the sandwich.

A few minutes later the cook delivered it to me, wrapped in white butcher paper. I opened it and inhaled, then slowly took the first bite. Perfect muffaletta with sesame seeds, slightly warm, the proper level of chewiness. (Mahony’s get its bread from the Leidenheimer Baking Company, which was founded in 1896 by George Leidenheimer, who was from Deidesheim, Germany, a city near where I lived in Germany.) I asked for a side of mayonnaise and settled in for a leisurely meal. The Abita Amber was a good complement.

The Peacemaker, closed view

The Peacemaker, closed view

Not the most visually appealing image, but once this is in your mouth you will be in heaven, guaranteed.

Not the most visually appealing image, but once this is in your mouth you will be in heaven, guaranteed.

What we have: three or four fried oysters, cheddar cheese, and two slices of bacon. And we also have something approaching perfection. Oysters cooked with aplomb, crisp on the outside, warm and soft interiors. The bacon combined with the oysters to create a great taste. Even the small pickles added their element, turning these ingredients into something really special. My only thought other than “This is excellent” was that a better grade of cheese would make this po’ boy even better. The cheese resembled the Boar’s Head variety, and alone had an unremarkable taste. Perhaps a goat cheese, or a sharp cheddar. But, minor quibble aside, I would without hesitation enjoy a regular appointment at Mahony’s.

Oh yes, the name. Peacemaker. You might be wondering about that. I asked a waitress and she told me that she had heard it was because when musicians would stay out late at night playing and doing other things that happen at night they would stop by Mahony’s and take one home as a peace offering to their significant other, thereby keeping the peace, at least as long as that po’ boy lasted.

My Grandmother’s Kitchen Is Everywhere

My grandmother, Ida Boyette, died early this morning. She was 84, and had heart disease, and more recently suffered a series of strokes. She was tired. A few hours before she left this world I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and left her room for the final time.

Ida Boyette and James Brock, her first grandson.

Ida Boyette and James Brock, her first grandson.

It's always too early to say farewell to someone you truly love.

It’s always too early to say farewell to someone you truly love.

She indeed lived a full life, raised six children, and is one of the main reasons I cook. For many years we visited papa and grandma in Savannah, at least once a year, and my memories of those visits are primarily of her kitchen, whose door we most often used to enter and leave the house. The door took us to the backyard, and its window held an amazing view of a giant oak tree, full of Spanish moss. (If I was not in the kitchen, I was in that yard, which was also graced with a beautiful old magnolia tree, my grandfather’s garden, and the healthiest azaleas I have ever seen.)

Ida and James, my maternal grandparents.

Ida and James.

Ida and James, doing what came naturally at Thanksgiving.

Ida and James, doing what came naturally at Thanksgiving.

Back in that kitchen, my grandmother was probably breaking down a chicken or two, preparing to fry them for a hungry crowd. (My grandfather, James Calvin Boyette, was a hunter and a fisherman, and at one time even raised quail in that yard, so there was always something that needed attention, from dove to squirrel to bass to cobia and everything in between. And more often than not, his wife was left with the task of cleaning what he and his sons and friends brought home.)

I did not know it was happening, but what Ida was doing in that kitchen in Savannah entered into me, slowly and surely. She was, of course, taking care of her family, feeding a husband and children and visiting relatives. But she was also thinking diligently about what she was preparing, and I remember many moments when the joy she was feeling erupted in the kitchen: laughter as blue crabs scampered on the counter near the sink, when shrimp flipped in cold water. I smell still the ingredients she used in her mincemeat pies, the raisin and spices.

There was a large table in the dining room, and we all gathered there. In that kitchen, and around that table, I developed, over the years, a passion for working with food, for cooking, for taking ingredients and transforming them into something that made people smile. I learned from her, in short, how to create.

Thank you, Ida. You’ll be in my kitchen forever.

It runs in the family.

It runs in the family.

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

Constant coffee: the Kaffeeklatsch

There’s a great little coffee roaster in Huntsville, Alabama, and it has been there since 1977. I would have no problem stating that out of The Kaffeeklatsch‘s door issues the best coffee in the world.

Lovers of great coffee make pilgrimages to this place

Lovers of great coffee make pilgrimages to this place

Grant and Kathy Heath are the people behind this institution. And it is an institution, in the best sense of the word. They have been producing quality beans for 36 years in the same location in Huntsville’s downtown. And the honest manner in which they do this, using a beautiful 1929-vintage Jabez Burns coffee roaster they purchased in New Orleans, is a thing to behold.

Small batches, attention to detail, manual labor. All of these things, and more, result in the best beans I have ever tasted. I have consumed coffee in at least 20 countries around the world, and, almost without exception, whenever I lift a cup to my lips I think, “I wish this was Kaffeeklatsch coffee.”

They don't make them like this anymore: The Kaffeeklatsch's 1929 Jabez Burns coffee roaster.

They don’t make them like this anymore: The Kaffeeklatsch’s 1929 Jabez Burns coffee roaster.

Grant works his magic.

Grant Heath works his magic.

I have been drinking those beans from Alabama since 1985, and I’ve had it shipped to Dubai and Germany and New York and Florida, among other places. My latest beans arrived last week, and mornings have been better since then. If you drink Kathy and Grant’s coffee you know what I am talking about. If you don’t, you are making a mistake. Take a look at the Kaffeeklatsch’s site and place an order. (My favorite is Kenyan, because I like the winey taste it brings to my palate.) And have a great morning.

Three pounds of excellence

Three pounds of excellence

The food is Hot and Hot in Birmingham

Whenever I am in Birmingham, Alabama, Highlands Bar and Grill is on my agenda. And my most recent visit to “The Magic City” was no exception. In fact, I dined at Highlands twice in May, and, as always, loved it.

Setting the stage (Photo courtesy of Hot and Hot Fish Club)

Setting the stage (Photo courtesy of Hot and Hot Fish Club)

But this time I added another restaurant to the schedule, a place I have had on my list for years but for whatever reason – and the main reason is Highlands Bar and Grill – never entered: Hot and Hot Fish Club. (Chris Hastings, the restaurant’s chef and co-owner, was named best chef in the South in 2012 by the James Beard Foundation, and I’ve long admired his support of Alabama agriculture.)

My decision to visit Hot and Hot was made at the last minute, and it was a Saturday, and I was arriving around 8:30, but I was dining solo and scored a seat at the end of the bar, near the kitchen door. Which was fine with me, because I like to see how people move in a restaurant, how the food flows. The bartender set my place and I looked at the cocktail list and the wine board, settling on a glass of Riesling.

The restaurant was buzzing, full, loud. People were waiting near the front door for a table, and the tables on the patio were full. After a first taste of my wine I walked through the main dining room, where one is treated to a view of an open kitchen. Men and women and a few teen-agers were talking and drinking and eating at their tables, and all of the places at the chef’s counter were occupied. A warm room, inviting.

Ravioli and cheese and chicken ... and corn

Ravioli and cheese and chicken … and corn

Back at the bar, I enjoyed my wine and the bartender handed me the menu. I quickly homed in on the ravioli as my first course. Good choice. The pasta was filled with farmer’s cheese and chicken, and the plate was completed with summer squash (including a blossom), English peas, and spring onions. And, in what would be a welcome and delicious leitmotif that evening, the ravioli was bathed in a sweet corn broth. (Corn is what I am talking about when I write “leitmotif”. Early corn, sweet, amazingly flavorful. It featured in every plate.) This first course was perfect. Vegetables cooked to point, or the point I like: right below crisp, giving a sublime mouthfeel. The ravioli was as thin as paper. The cheese, firm and mild, crossed the membrane in a delicate manner. Ideal opening.

Duck, two ways. And, more corn.

Duck, two ways. And, more corn.

Next: Pan-seared Duck Breast and Crispy Confit. (I love duck; in fact, one of my favorite breakfasts in memory is the morning I cooked two breasts for breakfast. Duck, with Champagne. It was a Sunday, and the day began well.)

The duck at Hot and Hot was as it should be: the breast pink, the confit crisp and dense. The plate contained, continuing the theme, corn, Anson Mills grits, Alabama strawberries, pecans and arugula. (I don’t know where Chris Hastings got that corn, because I failed to ask, but I hope many more people have the chance to eat it. It is the best corn I have had in about five years.) Plates such as this one sing, all of the flavors and textures communicating, harmonizing, and for a little while on that stool at the bar I was completely happy.

I often decline to order dessert. I consider wine to be my dessert. Or I have cheese. But this time I was intrigued by something on the menu: Sweet Corn and Lemon Bread Pudding with Benne Seed Brittle, Corn Cream, and Lemon Ice Cream. Put simply, it was the highlight of the evening. And that’s saying a lot.

A bread pudding for the ages.

A bread pudding for the ages.

Think moist and dense bread pudding. And, once again, think corn. Sweet corn. The corn cream I slathered on the bread pudding, and I made sure to slide a few of the kernels on each spoonful of bread pudding, because that corn was amazing. And the bread pudding … I once had a superb bread pudding in Portland that featured pigeon. I remember thinking during that meal that this was “the” bread pudding. But at Hot and Hot Fish Club I had another great one. Warm, not too sweet, slightly crisp exterior. Eating two portions would not have been out of the question. I could have done without the ice cream and the brittle; to my palate they were too sweet. But I think I am being too harsh. I imagine most people would not have a problem with the sweetness.

Jason's Corn 'n Oil

Jason’s Corn ‘n Oil

Speaking of the bar, the man working behind it and bringing me my food and drink that night is an exemplar of his profession. His name is William Hamrick, and he mixes and pours with grace and care. He answered my questions forthrightly, and when I ordered the bread pudding for dessert he made me the best libation I have had in a long while, saying they would pair perfectly. He called it Jason’s Corn n’ Oil, and it was made with John D. Taylor Velvet Falernum. You take 2 ounces of the Falernum, ¾ ounces of Gosling’s Black Seal Rum, and ¾ ounces of fresh lemon juice. Shake. Serve over crushed ice and garnish with a lemon peel. It was delicious. It seemed to me that the dessert and drink were created together one night in a divine session of inspiration. Mr. Hamrick wrote the recipe down for me. You can see it below. And you should make this drink tonight.

One for the books

One for the books, courtesy of William Hamrick

After a bit of conversation with a couple from Atlanta sitting next to me, and a few more words with Mr. Hamrick, I left Hot and Hot Fish Club and headed up the road. I shall return, though, and if a table isn’t available I’ll be more than happy at that bar.

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