Category: Uncategorized (Page 17 of 19)

Perfect pig, perfect weekend

A brining pig

A brining pig

What do you cook at a lake in North Carolina on a summer day in May during a reunion with friends from high school, one of whom you haven’t seen in 13 years? A weekend during which Angela will meet some of your closest friends, people with whom you went to high school in Germany?

My first thought was a suckling pig, a pig that I hoped could be sourced from a North Carolina farmer. Beth, our hostess for the weekend, got to work and contacted Joseph Cataldo, a restaurateur in Salisbury, who found us the perfect pig. (He also loaned me a pan big enough to brine in.) Beth and her husband, Glenn, and their four children live in Salisbury, and they made us feel at home as well.

Glenn and Beth, consummate and caring hosts

Glenn and Beth, consummate hosts

Brined and rinsed

Brined and rinsed

A friendship more than 30 years in the making

A friendship more than 30 years in the making: Mark, Tina, Beth and James

Tina and Angela conspire

Tina and Angela conspire

Respect your product

Respect your product

We had some fine food during that weekend, including a Low Country Boil on Friday made by Beth and Glenn and a great dinner out on Saturday cooked by a Brazilian chef.

Low Country Love

Low Country Love

We saved the suckling pig for Sunday, our final day at the lake.

A fine pig

A fine pig

Skin-deep goodness

Skin-deep goodness

Prepping the skin

Prepping the skin

Mark and I rub

Mark and I rub

What's inside: garlic, fennel, basil leaves, orange zest

What’s inside: garlic, fennel, basil leaves, orange zest

Adding some salt

Adding some salt

Ingredients from the inside out

Ingredients from the inside out

We brined the pig on Saturday night, with lots of elephant garlic and some bay leaves and black peppercorns. On Sunday we transported the pig to the lake house and prepped. Angela took care of the garlic and the rub: orange zest, fennel fronds, salt, pepper and olive oil. I scored the pig’s skin, and Mark and I stuffed it with lots of garlic and the rub, plus some fresh basil leaves, and then massaged the skin with the remaining rub. A little more salt and pepper all over the skin, and the pig was ready for the oven.

I cooked it at 250 Fahrenheit for about 3.5 hours, and then for the last 30 minutes raised the temperature to 475 Fahrenheit, which gave us a perfect skin, crunchy and crisp; it melted in the mouth. We tented the pig with foil and let it rest for 15 minutes, and then began carving. The meat, dark and white, was moist, and the fennel and orange mingled in every tendril.

Out of the oven

Out of the oven

Perfect skin, perfect meat

Perfect skin, perfect meat

Mark gets some skin

Mark gets some skin

Crisp and hot

Crisp and hot

Glenn takes the knife

Glenn takes the knife

Glenn carves

Glenn carves

Glenn carves

Manual labor

Carving and talking

Carving and talking

The skin is key

The skin is key

Glenn carved, with expertise and aplomb, using his fingers like an extra knife, and we feasted, down to the tongue and ears. We ended the day on the dock, watching the sun set over the water. Perfect weekend, perfect pig.

On the lake, after the feast

On the lake, after the feast

(Angela Shah photography)

Little Serow

Travel for food. Eating one’s way through the world. It’s a fine way to live. We were in Washington, D.C., last week for a few days and heard some great things about Little Serow, a Thai place on L Street. The chef, Johnny Monis, had just been named best chef for the mid-Atlantic region by the James Beard Foundation, and when we arrived at the restaurant around 4:15 in the afternoon there were about 10 people waiting on line (Little Serow does not take reservations). We had cabbed it over from downtown and the driver gave us an umbrella, because the skies had suddenly darkened and the wind-driven rain would have drenched us without one. Angela had a meeting scheduled at 6:00 with some important people, so she jumped in another cab and left me in line as the sun drove away the clouds and rain. I secured two spots at the late seating, which turned out to be early, 8:15.

Food at Little Serow: In a word, excellent. Atmosphere and design: low-ceilinged basement, blue-painted brick walls, long communal bar, a few tables against one wall, kitchen in the rear, partially in view.

Service, blue

Service, blue

To begin

To begin

crispy rice, sour pork

crispy rice, sour pork

Menu is fixed,  five or six courses, changes often. A value at $45. Below is what we had:

nam prik num
finger chilies / shallot / bla rah

tom kha gapi
shrimp / ramps / galangal

soop naw mai
bamboo shoots / snakehead fish / rice powder

gai laap chiang mai
chicken liver / sawtooth / long pepper

naem khao tod
crispy rice / sour pork / peanuts

gai lan bla kem
greens / salted fish / egg

si krong muu
pork ribs / mekhong whiskey / dill

Will you be in D.C. anytime soon? If so, take yourself to L Street and stand in line. And make sure to ask for some Imbue bittersweet vermouth. And have the ribs. And linger and look at each plate and talk to the staff. They are good. The ribs will move you. And Angela loved the chicken liver.

A sunburned visit to an organic farm

We were spending two days on the beach in Mandvi, a seaside town in Kutch, sleeping in a tent. A tent with air conditioning and a well-appointed bathroom, but a tent nonetheless. I was nursing a sunburned face, the result of a Jeep drive through a game reserve in search of the Indian Wild Ass, a large equine that can gallop at speeds approaching 80 kilometers an hour. (We saw several small groups of the ass, along with some cranes who were late flying back to Siberia, flamingoes and a few wild dogs.) I had no après-sun cream, so had resorted to slathering my red, dry skin with hand lotion.

Over coffee on the tent’s front porch I read about an organic farm not far from Mandvi, about 7 kilometers, and we decided to ask our driver, Suraj, to take us there that afternoon. I wanted to go because I am interested in farming, especially organic farming, and because I have not given up on the idea of operating a restaurant with its own large garden/small farm. So whenever I have the opportunity to see a farming operation I try to take advantage of it and walk through the fields and talk to the farmers.

The farm is called Nu Tech, and is part of World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. After asking for directions several times, we turned off of the narrow road and found a Hindu temple on our left, and directly beyond that a farmhouse and fields. We parked the car and walked toward a man standing near the farm building, and he in turn called for his son to take us on a tour of the spread.

The son, who is 18 and studying mechanical engineering at university, told us he is the seventh generation of his family to work on the farm; his father is the manager of Nu Tech. When he and his two brothers finish their educations  they will work on the farm, he said. Plus, a new tractor had just arrived, and they are excited about getting on it.

We toured the farm, which has a herd of cows that supply milk and manure (which is converted to fertilizer). There are two bulls and 25 or so cows. We walked down a few trails, alongside fields of castor and tomatoes and squash. A large section of Nu Tech is devoted to date palms. As we neared the end of the tour we came across rows of aloe vera. Aloe vera, perfect for sunburned skin. We walked near a plant and removed a healthy stalk from it. Relief was in my hands.

As we neared the farmhouse again we noticed a group of 10 or so people on their haunches harvesting grass. Our guide told us it was for the cows and left us, walking over to the harvesters. A few minutes later he returned, two young women in tow. Meghan and Elise, it turns out, were volunteer workers on the farm, which they had located through Wwoof. “Look, there’s a white person,” Megan said as she approached us, indicative, I guess, of the area, which is off the main tourist track. They were planning to stay on the farm for five weeks, and were into their third. They looked happy, dirty hands and all.

We needed to get back to the tent, as cocktail hour was approaching. And I had big plans for my aloe vera stalk.

Addendum: Angela and I met Megan and Elise for dinner in Ahmedabad several weeks after our visit to the farm, and over mutton and chicken and kulcha they told us that though the work at Nu Tech was exhausting and more difficult than anything they had ever done they were happy they had worked the land. They said they had learned a lot. They were leaving the next day for Germany, where Megan is going to work as an au pair for a year. We hope to see them again.

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Sai Kung: A seafood-lover’s paradise

Dean and I took a trip, seafood on our minds. We left Kowloon on a train, then transferred to a little bus, which took us up and down some hills and around some bends before reaching our destination: Sai Kung, a small city/large town on the sea less than an hour from central Hong Kong on the other side of a peak.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the boardwalk was crowded with families and couples, many of them with dogs in tow … dogs on leads and dogs in arms and dogs in baby strollers. It’s been a long time since I have seen so many dogs in one place.

Out for a stroll

Out for a stroll

Dogs have a good life in Sai Kung. (Photo by Dean Cox)

Dogs have a good life in Sai Kung. (Photo by Dean Cox)

We walked along the boardwalk, and soon came to the first seafood palace. One side of the restaurant was nothing but tanks of seawater, alive with crustaceans and fish and bivalves and almost anything one could desire when it comes to seafood. I mean anything and everything. There were razor clams and mantis shrimp and horseshoe crab and three or four types of eel and whelks and clams and mussels and scallops and on and on. The water was pristine, the fishmongers were respectful of their wares.

Hungry for eel? Get to Sai Kung.

Hungry for eel? Get to Sai Kung.

Clean tanks, housing anything a seafood lover desires.

Clean tanks, housing anything a seafood lover desires.

Fresh, alive, swimming or just hanging around.

Fresh, alive, swimming or just hanging around.

Razor clams from Chinese waters.

Razor clams from Chinese waters.

Scallop with roe, ready for your tongue.

Scallop with roe, ready for your tongue.

Dean and I walked from restaurant to restaurant along the promenade, returning to the first one, Tung Kee, because the woman who spoke with us about the seafood on offer there was friendly and helpful and obviously loved her job. We chose a table at the front of the outdoor dining area, which afforded us a perfect view of the passersby.

A waterfront menu.

A waterfront menu.

The menu was exhaustive, and in addition to the seafood there were dumplings and rice and pork and duck and vegetables. We decided on Tasting Menu 2, for two people, and ordered some Erdinger Dunkel. What followed was – and I say this with no exaggeration – the third best seafood meal I have ever experienced (the first two being at Le Bernardin).

We started with some very good fried squid; crispy, with a nice ratio of tentacles to body. Next came mantis prawn with amazing seared garlic and peppers. Dean loved the garlic mixture, and it was perfect with the prawns, which were fried with their shells on, so we had scissors with which to cut away the shells so that we could get to the white, tender meat. A sauce of ginger and soy turned the meat a wonderful golden color, and I could have easily eaten five more of those aggressive and mighty shellfish.

Squid, fried as I like it.

Squid, fried as I like it.

Mantis prawn, shell on, scissors at the ready.

Mantis prawn, shell on, scissors at the ready.

Lobster enters table right. Lobster with onions and a “cheese sauce”. When I saw it on the menu I thought “Cheese and lobster … not so sure.” But the sauce grew on me, even though it was not appealing to the eye. The plate was full of wheat noodles, and the lobster, pieces separated but still in its cracked shell, was everything lobster should be: tasting of a clean sea, firm meat, not chewy. The sauce reminded me of a thin roux … there seemed to be cornstarch in it, and I must say that while I prefer my lobster poached in butter, or simply steamed, the flavor of this dish seemed appropriate for the locale. Dean and I extracted every piece of meat from the shell, and another lobster was not out of the question. It was that good.

Lobster and "cheese sauce" surprises.

Lobster and “cheese sauce” surprises.

There were still two plates to come on the menu: vegetables and fried rice. I wish they had come before or with the lobster, but each was in its own right satisfying. Stir-fried bok choy was our vegetable, and though it was overcooked – I like mine with a bit of crispness intact – it offered a good taste component to close the meal. As for the fried rice, I concentrated on the baby shrimp and pieces of pork that were cooked in it. In fact, I liked them so much that I was tempted to order a bowl of them, pork and shrimp for the ride back to Kowloon.

The promenade was beginning to grow quieter, lunch hours over. We paid our bill and started walking along the water, eyeing a dock jutting out perhaps 300 feet over the water. We then noticed people lined up at the railing along the edge of the promenade, looking down toward the water. When we managed to get a view we saw a dozen or so small boats – skiffs really – full of seafood for sale. Much like the restaurants, each boat was equipped with an aeration system that kept the crustaceans and fish and razor clams alive in clean water, until a customer gave the order and either a fish was stunned with a blow to the head and then gutted or a bunch of clams were put into a bag. A net on a long pole was raised to the waiting customer above, into which he deposited his payment. The fisherman then delivered the goods and turned his attention to the next client.

Shucking the wares.

Shucking the wares.

His own floating seafood store.

His own floating seafood store.

Watching the ships come in.

Watching the ships come in.

Crab for sale.

Crab for sale.

I’ve been to a lot of fish markets, and I’ve lived in Savannah, and I’ve spent time in the north of Spain, and I’ve fished in Florida and Alaska, but nowhere have I seen so much seafood in such beautiful condition, in such diversity. Swimming one minute, then on your plate not long afterward. That’s the way to eat it.

A little bit of my New York in Hong Kong

I’ve been away from New York for a while, and I miss it, a lot, but our planet is a big one, and there’s a lot to see out here, and I’ve been lucky enough to see a lot of it lately. Still, every time I return to the city for a visit one of the places I always make sure to get to is Babbo, that magical restaurant on Waverly Place that has never failed to make me happy, never.

Whether I dine at a table upstairs – the quieter room – or downstairs, which is louder and busier, or at the bar, my favorite place at Babbo, from the moment I enter the former coach house’s door I become part of what I consider one of the best restaurants in New York, if not the world. (I’ve eaten in a lot of great dining rooms in many parts of the world, and my experiences at Babbo have always been right up at the top of the list.)

But this is not about Babbo, not really. And it’s not about New York. (On the other hand, it’s about both of those places, in a roundabout way.) It’s about Hong Kong, and Lupa, another restaurant created by the Bastianich and Batali empire. (There is, of course, a New York Lupa, another fine place to eat owned by Bastianich and Batali, which gives its name to the Hong Kong outpost.)

But it’s mainly about getting my Babbo fix. (And this is for another time, but I could also use some time at Casa Mono and Otto and, to a lesser degree, Esca and Del Posto. I shall return.)

Lupa opened in Hong Kong last year, and I was hoping that the kinks had been ironed out of service and the kitchen, because I know how difficult it is to take a concept and style and duplicate it in a country that shares nothing in common with the original location’s environment, and by environment I mean ingredients, customs, diner expectations and other, often ineffable, things.

I called for a table at the last minute, and had no trouble getting one. I was dining alone, something I love to do. (I can better take in a place that way; I don’t have to engage in conversation, and I don’t have to worry about my dining companion(s) liking – or not liking – the food.) Keep in mind that I was not under the illusion that Lupa Hong Kong would be an exact replica of the Lupa in Manhattan, or that the vibe and feel of Babbo would have been magically transported thousands of miles from Waverly Place to the Central neighborhood of Hong Kong. I was there for the food, food that I hoped would, for a few hours, allow me to taste Babbo again.

Judging by the food, I was not disappointed. In fact, I was very pleased, with the entire evening. The service was excellent, if a little too punctual. (It always annoys me when staff in a restaurant want to rush away one’s plate or bowl the second it seems to be almost empty; I like to have time to sop up the remaining sauce, or merely savor the dish fully. Swooping down on a table and whisking away the porcelain disrupts, to my mind, what should be a calming and rejuvenating experience for all of the senses.) The waiters seemed to know the wine list, though they acted a bit confused when I ordered a Negroni instead of immediately placing my food order.

A menu that takes me back to Babbo

A menu that takes me back to Babbo

As I sipped my apéritif, I looked at the menu, and my eye went immediately to the Pasta Tasting Menu, because I reckoned that would be a good representation of the kitchen’s work. I have enjoyed Babbo’s pasta tasting menu on many occasions, so that’s what I ordered.

A treat from the chef came first, two orecchietta filled with marrow. They were an excellent start to the meal: warm, perfectly al dente, and filled with rich, smooth marrow.

Marvelous marrow

Marvelous marrow

Next came a cold pasta, Tonarelli Freddi. A small piece of sea urchin graced the top of a mound of square spaghetti, loosely mixed into which was an abundant amount of tender – read “not overcooked” – crabmeat. Bringing all of the ingredients together was a jalapeño pesto, and its effect in the cold dish was stupendous – it was a bit spicy, a bit hot on the front of the tongue, but then heat evolved into warmth and deepness. Splendid. It made the crab better than it should have been.

Urchin, black spaghetti, and jalapeño pesto: what more could one desire?

Urchin, black spaghetti, and jalapeño pesto: what more could one desire?

I had ordered a quartino of one of Bastianich’s whites with the early part of the menu, and it was a good one: dry, but lively.

Postage stamps that one wants to lick over and over again

Postage stamps that one wants to lick over and over again

Next came Francobolli, or, as described on the menu, Caciocavallo-filled “Postage Stamps” with White Asparagus and Fava Beans. First, I love fresh favas, everything about them. I love preparing them, shelling them, removing the thin membrane … everything. Their bright green color (if they are blanched properly) are a treat for the eye, and their taste … their taste is often ethereal, a rich accompaniment to meats and pastas and nearly everything. The asparagus was crisp, the pasta was thin and allowed the sheep’s cheese to creep out in my mouth, and the sauce, which seemed to be butter and olive oil and cheese, added the right amount of richness to a successful dish. Mint supplied another flavor component, a proper one.

We were moving on from the seafood-pasta portion now, so I ordered a quartino of red, a nice and unassuming Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. And then came my favorite dish of the evening. It included pork sausage. And fennel pollen. And broccoli rabe. And it was excellent. House-made little ears, as the menu described it (and I hope all of the pastas at Lupa Hong Kong are made in the house). Mild sausage, sprinked with fennel pollen, in a dish studded with crisp rabe. I’d have it again, any time.

Ears that talk to my mouth

Ears that talk to my mouth

Now, unfortunately, came my least favorite plate of the night. And it’s a shame, because pigeon is one of my favorite things to eat. At Spring and Amador, two places I spent some time at last year, pigeon is done well, very well. As it should be. The pigeon I had at Lupa was, as I described to myself upon chewing the first piece, mealy. And I am hoping it was an anomaly, because I will try it again at Lupa in Hong Kong, because, as I said, I love pigeon. The plate was basically pappardelle, wide ribbon pasta, “in salmi,” and the sauce and the pasta were very good. But that pigeon.

Pappardelle and pigeon, which I am thinking will be better next time I try it

Pappardelle and pigeon, which I am thinking will be better next time I try it

I was then presented with a soft, runny, brie-like cheese, accompanied with truffled honey and thin brioche wafers, and the dessert wine I ordered, a Moscato d’Asti (Bricco Quaglia” La Spinetta 2011), made the plate sing. Rich cheese, rich honey, and truffles. Nothing better. Almost nothing better.

Dessert was rhubarb panna cotta, about which I had no qualms. I recall that it had a bit too much citrus taste for my palate, but I am not big on citrus desserts, and I bet that 99 out of 100 diners would find it wonderful.

The kitchen is run by Zach Allen, who has a long history with Batali and Bastianich, and Jeff Newman, the latter of whom I had a wide-ranging conversation with during dinner. We discussed Cantonese eating habits, culinary school, New York and the rigors of sourcing ingredients, among other topics. They seem to have the kitchen in tip-top shape, and in my opinion have done an excellent job in a fairly short period of time. Juan Gimenez, Lupa’s manager, has assembled perfect order in the dining room, and has put together a great service.

If you are in Hong Kong, go to Lupa. I am going again soon. And if you are in New York, keep my place at Babbo’s bar warm. I will be back there soon, ready for some Mint Love Letters, a sweetbread or two, and that sublime goose liver ravioli.

Forget the casinos; go to Macau for some fine suckling pig

Macau lies about an hour from Hong Kong, if you go by a fast boat. To be precise, they are fast ferries, and I was aboard one on Monday morning, headed, with Dean and Julie, to the three islands known as Macau.

“Gambling casinos” are the two words most associated with Macau, and we had plans for a brief visit to The Venetian, but the first destination, after dropping off our bags at the hotel, was Restaurante Fernando, a sprawling Portuguese restaurant near the beach, on the island of Coloane. Robin, a colleague of Dean’s, recommended that we eat there, and guidebooks called it a “don’t-miss.”

Since 1986

Since 1986

We left the hotel and headed toward Hac Sa Bay, where Fernando is located, taking a winding road that runs parallel to the water. The island is very green, full of diverse vegetation, and a variety of birds – and stray dogs – add noise and color. After about 20 minutes we neared a beach and walked along the shoreline.

Asleep on the job

Asleep on the job

Consulting our map, Dean steered us along a sandy path, past a sleeping guard and a camping site. As we neared the end of a trail we saw nothing but a picnic area, so decided we had walked too far. We turned and retraced our steps, back past the snoring guard. To our right was a cluster of buildings, and the first one we came to was Fernando.

Enter here for great pork

Enter here for great pork

The restaurant’s front entrance is rather plain, but, as I later discovered, the entire complex – which includes a round pagoda-like bar out back and a large patio with tables for diners – has the comfortable feel of a lodge, or a fishing camp, which is appropriate, since the sea is so near.

We were told by Dean’s friend to make sure we ate in the back dining room, and walked through several rooms, past the doors leading to the kitchen, and down a long hallway covered in paper currency.

A world of diners

A world of diners

At our table, next to open windows and surrounded by other diners – it was lunchtime – we took a look at the menus and decided to order a few items to share. A waitress who seemed to be in charge – we later learned that her name is Liliana, and that she is Macanese – asked us what we wanted to drink; Dean and I chose Portuguese stouts, brewed under the brand name Double Bock, and Julie ordered a quartino of vinho verde.

A stout from Portugal

A stout from Portugal

To the food: shrimp in a chili sauce, “drunken steak,” (a take on Steak Diane), and roast suckling pig, which, in my opinion, is the best pig I have had thus far in this part of the world. The skin was crispy and just salty enough; it was not so chewy that it stuck to my teeth, but it provided a perfect snap and flavor. And the meat. The meat was all one wants from suckling pig: tender, earthy and wholesome. I closed my eyes and let a piece (almost) melt in my mouth.

That's some pig.

That’s some pig.

I don’t mean to ignore the other dishes, because they, too, were good. The shrimp were fresh, not overcooked – one of my pet peeves is chewy, dry seafood – and the steak was a perfect medium rare, accompanied by a sauce tasting of pepper and brandy. There was nothing left on the plates when we finished, and we used our bread to make sure we left no sauce behind. It really was that good.

Dean pours the Sangria.

Dean pours the Sangria.

After-lunch drinks at the Pagoda

After-lunch drinks at the Pagoda

Near the end of the meal we ordered a pitcher of Sangria, and, after pushing our plates aside, went outside to sit at the bar. There, Lili, as she ordered us to call her, told us a bit about the restaurant and gave us a recommendation for dinner in Macau. A perfect dining experience require mores than food, and Lili helped make Fernando perfect.

I got up to take a tour of the huge kitchen, which is comprised of several connected rooms, and I talked with a few of the cooks. The chef was an imposing woman who, by the looks of it, had the kitchen fully under control, as it should be. But there were lots of smiles, as it also should be.

An ample kitchen

An ample kitchen

A cook from Nigeria

A cook from Nigeria

Busy lunch

Busy lunch

Not Staub, but plenty good

Not Staub, but plenty good

The pork gets its own oven

The pork gets its own oven

When I returned to the pagoda bar I saw that Dean had been recruited for a match of Foosball; I soon found myself playing alongside him, against two of the waitresses. Suffice to say that they kicked our asses, with style, laughing all the while. (One of the women played with the grace of Platini, no wasted movements, always finding the corners of the goal.) Dean and I lost the final match 5-0.

Foosball fools

Foosball fools

Dean plays defense

Dean plays defense

Platini, in foreground, celebrates another fine goal

Platini, in foreground, celebrates another fine goal

Lunch over, Foosball pride a little deflated, Sangria making us warm, we said goodbye to Lili and the others and boarded a bus bound for another island.

Sometimes one hears of a restaurant and is told that it is wonderful, that one must go, only to be disappointed. On other occasions the experience is all one wants from a meal: gracious and comfortable service, honest food that tastes the way it is meant to, engaging conversation, all of which enjoyed while surrounded by an ineffable spirit of goodness. Fernando is all that. You should go. And order the pork.

A moveable reunion

 

 

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We met Julie on a holy mountaintop outside of Barcelona in 2007. It was late December, mist covered the peaks. Dean and I boarded the funicular and settled in for the ride. There were 15 or so other passengers; everyone wore a look of expectation, eager to reach the trail. Hermits’ caves dotted the vista, temporary dwellings for men who closed themselves off from others in an attempt to find nirvana, holiness, solace. I do not know if they found their peace, but if they did not find it on Montserrat I doubt they did anywhere.

The sun was shining, but not enough to coax the mist away from the peaks. The climb was not easy, but the company made the trek fun, even spiritual. As we hiked, Dean and I began to talk to Julie, who was teaching English in Barcelona. She is an American, from Florida, and as Dean and I also have Florida ties (we attended the same university there, though years apart, just one of the odd coincidences that tie us together) there was common ground.

An hour or so later we reached the top, far above the Spanish plain. Dean asked Julie if she would like to join us in Sweden for our New Year’s Eve party, in a beautiful house in Aneby, in the white and cold Swedish countryside. She said yes, and we began our descent, back down past the spirits of the hermits, their caves protecting shrines and incense and messages scrawled on the stone walls.

The next several days in Barcelona were spent walking around the city’s streets and alleys and sitting on stools in tapas bars drinking Txakoli and cava and eating shrimp and foie gras and chorizo. (Food is a constant when we gather.)

Dean and I flew back to Sweden (one day before Real visited Barca; we had no choice but to get back to Scandinavia) and Christmas with his family. Julie flew in the following week and the Cox/Knutsson household was full of holiday spirit. Dean put together a Mexican buffet, the wine and Aquavit flowed. (We had cooked a moose roast earlier in the week, but I don’t recall if there was any left for the taco meat. I hope there was.)

After the holiday, which included launching fireworks into the frigid, starlit night, Dean, Julie and I took a train to Stockholm, and from there Dean continued on to an assignment in Eastern Europe. Julie and I spent a few days in Stockholm, and I then flew to Iceland for a week, where I had arranged a layover on my way back to New York. Julie was headed back to Barcelona.

Before we parted ways, Dean, Julie and I made plans to meet again, somewhere else in this magical world. We did so this week, in Hong Kong.

Last night our palms were read, and the man told us that we would have further adventures together. (He also said Julie should quit thinking so much, that she should calm her mind, that Dean should not live in Moscow, Norway or Sweden, and that I was aggressive on the outside but a kind man on the inside and the owner of a keen intelligence. Should we believe him?)

The journey continues.

A horse tale (and Max produces some fine pasta)

I enjoy teaching others to cook, and showing them that learning a few things culinary is well worth the time it takes to do so.

I’ve been cooking a lot in Gudrun’s kitchen this month, and it’s been fun showing Max the ropes, especially making pasta.

Last week we went to the Saturday market and I bought a nice foal steak and some horse sausage, and they became a wonderful ragù. It was cooked low and slow, for seven or eight hours. I started it on Saturday evening, and on Sunday Max and I got together and made pasta. I put him in charge, and he did a fine job … it was his second batch, and I do believe he could produce some good pasta in any kitchen.

We made vanilla panna cotta for dessert, Holger opened a Syrah, and Sunday evening in Kaiserslautern was delicious.

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Duck and cheese, for a brisk day in Paris

Paris is … well, Paris is a great place for food, which is one of the reasons I love this city. Every day I wander into another little shop, looking for cheese, meats, vegetables, wines, coffees, or teas. Or conversation with people who love food and love to cook.

Teas of the world, in the 5th.

Teas of the world, in the 5th.

Today was brisk and sunny, I was out early, enjoying the holiday feeling, the lights and smiling people, the frowning people. Christmas trees are selling now, and the man who sits on the corner near my apartment depending on the kindness of strangers for his income added a new puppy to his entourage. He now has three.

I have been cooking a lot lately, saving my dining-out money for when Angela arrives. The kitchen in my apartment is small, two burners and a toaster oven. That limits my choices, but so far I’ve not had any problems satisfying my palate. This afternoon I picked up some sliced duck and a few shallots, and when I returned home I surveyed the kitchen and noticed some pasta and chèvre, and macaroni and cheese came to mind.

I love duck.

I love duck.

From a goat and a garden

From a goat and a garden

I cooked the pasta until it was just under al dente, then rinsed it in cold water and drained. I returned it to the pan and cooked it for a minute longer, to chase away any excess moisture. I then sliced the chèvre into it, added some salt and butter and mixed that well.

Cheese, pasta and butter

Cheese, pasta and butter; stir well.

duck bacon?

Duck bacon? Yes.

Duck fat and vegetables

Duck fat and vegetables

The duck I heated gently, then removed it from the pan and sautéed an onion and a shallot in the duck fat, which imparts a great taste to the vegetables. The duck I tore into smaller pieces, then added it, along with the onion and shallot, to the pasta and cheese mixture. Stirred it well and seasoned with more salt and pepper, then added a bit of cream.

The oven was hot, so I buttered a baking dish and put the pasta mixture into it. Into the oven went the dish, and I cooked it for an hour or so.

One can do a lot, or a little, with a toaster over

One can do a lot, or a little, with a toaster oven.

About five or 10 minutes before the dish was done I put a few more pieces of chèvre on top of the pasta and broiled it until the cheese melted.

It was excellent, with a baguette and a pinot noir. If you can’t find duck I have also tasted this dish with pork bacon, or lardons, or salmon. I prefer duck.

Everyone loved macaroni and cheese, no?

Everyone loves macaroni and cheese, no?

A healthy obsession with Escoffier

Jeremiah Tower's work on Escoffier is the perfect introduction to the work and life of the famous chef.

Jeremiah Tower’s work on Escoffier is the perfect introduction to the work and life of the famous chef.

Escoffier. Anyone who loves food, who loves to dine in good restaurants, should know his name. And most definitely, anyone who cooks in a restaurant has a responsibility to be fully aware of his name, and, more importantly, of his profound presence that is all around you as you cook and serve guests. He is one of the luminaries in the chef pantheon.

Now comes an eBook on Escoffier by another famous chef, Jeremiah Tower. Its title is “A Dash of Genius,” and it is a welcome addition to the Escoffier library, especially for readers who don’t know much about the French demigod (whose full name is Georges Auguste Escoffier).

One of the most enjoyable aspects of “A Dash of Genius” is the way Tower tells the reader how Escoffier entered his life, and how the Frenchman’s legacy and lessons have affected his creativity and career. (In addition, Tower’s use of recipes is marvelous, and will make you want to cook.) He begins:

“I have been obsessed with Auguste Escoffier since I was sixteen at King’s College School in London. My drama teacher gave me ‘Ma Cuisine’ for having played Algernon Moncrieff in Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’ I thought it was a curious choice, but I read it every night under the bed covers with a flashlight after lights out. And was entranced. Later, in Harvard College and cooking for friends, I graduated from ‘Ma Cuisine’ to ‘Le Guide Culinaire.’ I worked through it enough so that when I moved to a little house in Cambridge in my senior year, the first dinner I gave was pure Escoffier.”

Tower goes on to list the menu for that dinner, which took place in 1965, but, as someone who never tires of reading menus, I’ll not spoil your enjoyment. Get this book.

Escoffier, a man of sublime taste and great vision. (Photo courtesy of Ecole Ritz Escoffier)

Escoffier, a man of sublime taste and great vision. (Photo courtesy of Ecole Ritz Escoffier)

“A Dash of Genius” begins at the beginning, and tells the story of Escoffier’s birth (1846, near Nice) and early development, establishing the fact that the young man from the south of France had an “iron will” even at an early age. He was working for his uncle, and, according to Tower, this is where Escoffier’s ideas on reforming professional kitchens and, indeed, all aspects of running a restaurant, were born. The formation of kitchen brigades, bringing all the functions of cooking into one unified space (as opposed to cooks working in separate, unconnected rooms), and the improvement of hygienic conditions in kitchens: we owe Escoffier much gratitude for these and many other innovations.

Tower spends a lot of time on Escoffier’s charitable work and other benevolent activities, which were many. For example, Tower recounts the story of two nuns who would daily visit the Savoy, at which Escoffier was chef, on a horse-drawn wagon. The women would go through the restaurant’s garbage looking for used coffee ground, tea leaves, and other items, which they used to feed residents of a rest home. When Escoffier noticed their activities he ordered that all the food thrown away by the restaurant be clean and in good condition, including, writes Tower, quail carcasses, legs and thighs still intact – the restaurant generally used only the breasts of the small birds.

Tower continues: “The day came when there was no horse. No nuns. Escoffier leapt into action and visited the rest home to see the Reverend Mother. All she needed for the horse was five pounds. Escoffier supplied the money and the next day the same two nuns with a new horse pulled up to the Savoy.”

Escoffier continued to help the nuns for more than 20 years. In addition, he was the recipient of, among many other awards and honors, the Chevalier of the Légion d’Honneur and the Officier de la Légion d’Honneur. He raised 75,000 francs for the benefit of women and children during World War One, and took on the task of rehiring every cook of his who had gone to war, eventually “implanting over 2,000 French chefs around the world.”

Escoffier founded a magazine, “Le Carnet d’Epicure,” in 1911, and wrote books, the most famous being “Le Guide Culinaire,” which is found in restaurants and home libraries around the world. If you do not own it, please get a copy. It alone would have lit Escoffier’s star in the firmament forever, and its more than 5,000 recipes, not to mention its practical and groundbreaking approach to cooking and producing food for a modern clientele, will be with us until the final pot of stock grows cold.

Jeremiah Tower, whose study of Escoffier is food for the mind and senses. (Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Tower)

Jeremiah Tower, whose study of Escoffier is food for the mind and senses. (Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Tower)

Another interesting encounter with Escoffier that Tower tells readers about deals with Chez Panisse, the pioneering restaurant in Berkeley, California, founded by Alice Waters, at which Tower was an instrumental presence. In 1976, Tower was creating menus for a “Week of Escoffier” festival at Chez Panisse, and on this particular night 60 guests were waiting in the dining room for their dinner. Foie gras was on the menu, there because Tower wanted to serve Tournedos Rossini, which he said was a childhood favorite of his. From beyond the grave, Escoffier guided Tower to transform his approach to food and the serving of it to paying guests:

“It was the foie gras that made me rethink what I was doing. In the United States in the early 1970’s it came in cans … After one taste of canned goose liver, I knew I was eating more pig wurst than goose liver, and the canned truffles might as well have been old turnips. Facing a demand to do one more night of Escoffier, I thought, why not his famous Caneton Rouennais en Dodine au Chambertin? Of course, this was as long as I could get the Chambertin. I looked to the local ducks. Reichhardt Duck Farm Sonoma pekins were fine, but trying to convince myself that they could substitute for French canards de Rouen that arrive in the kitchen undressed and still full of blood for the pressed sauces with which they are served was a losing battle. In those days, international ingredients weren’t flown in every day, and frozen foods were a personal anathema. I was faced with using whatever had been produced in the region – and that realization was my “eureka” moment. I looked up from France and saw California.”

Tower goes on to describe how he took Escoffier’s dishes and made them “local,” and anyone who has dined at Chez Panisse (or, by now, most other good restaurants whose chefs and cooks focus as much as possible on seasonal and local ingredients), has benefitted from that “eureka” moment. I recall one lunch at Chez Panisse during which my three dining companions and I were invited into the kitchen upon arrival and given a tour; I was put to work shelling peas, and loved being around the fresh produce grown on farms around the region. (I’ll leave it to others to discuss Tower’s working relationship with Alice Waters.)

Escoffier survived captivity as a prisoner of war in a German camp, opened excellent hotels and restaurants, traveled to the United States on four occasions, and was instrumental in the development and success of countless cooks and chefs. His work pleased royals and commoners alike, and many of his dishes and their offspring are served around the world daily, to the delight of millions. He died in 1935, two weeks after the death of his wife, in Monte Carlo. His guidance, however, is fully with us. Tower’s study deserves a place on shelves devoted to Escoffier, and will, I think, introduce more readers to the work and legacy of the great man.

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